


Manor on the Hill

by orphan_account



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Courtship, Demon Instincts, Devil Trigger (Devil May Cry) Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Forbidden Love, M/M, Manipulation, Marathon Sex, Mating Bond, Mother-Son Relationship, Mpreg, Mundus is His Own Warning, Nobility, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-08-19 07:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: To ensure the survival of the human world, Sparda must wrest power from Mundus and prevent him from attempting the same failed invasion from two millennia ago. To the Dark Knight's surprise, Mundus forfeits the throne with one single condition: the twins must be separated, or else risk the destruction of everything Sparda has ever held dear.After being torn from each other as children, Dante and Vergil meet again on their eighteenth birthday. Not so much as brothers, but one as the Crown Prince of the Underworld and the other a devilish ambassador. Eva can only hope her sons play by their father's rules.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Please read the warnings._ While this isn't as dark as it sounds, there are some elements that may be triggering to some. Yes, this is a "everyone lives" AU because I'm a self-indulgent fuck that wants happy stuff but with a different degree of angst than the usual, if that makes sense. The mpreg was originally a joke I made on twitter but then I accidentally tripped over my brain and now that's an actual thing in this story.
> 
> And also I wanted an in-verse (ish) masquerade party so I wrote an ENTIRE fic for it. Sue me.

A sudden gust of wind rustles the trees, and Vergil watches as leaves come unattached from their branches, twirling and falling to the ground he lays on. Hands behind his back, he squints when another strong breeze allows sunlight to cut through the heavy canopy of the grove and shine in his eyes.

It’s a beautiful day out. He should have brought his lesson books to study by the pond, away from loud siblings and overbearing parents. But Dante had gotten the best of him, and Mother suggested Vergil entertain his brother’s request just this once, so he had stormed off to the one place he knew no one would follow. 

At the edge of their property, amidst the rolling meadows, was a grove. The trees had grown closely together, bending over a natural pond as if to shield it from outside forces. It’s secretive and quiet, still were it not for the small fish that would sometimes swim up to nibble Vergil’s toes. The trees will sometimes bare apples. The bushes often give berries. Another leaf falls. This one he catches, pins it between his teeth for the sake of it. 

He’s been out here for almost an hour and he should be heading back, or else someone will come looking for him. “It’s almost lunchtime,” he tells the breeze once he’s spit out the leaf. Stretching out his arms above him, then letting them fall to his sides, Vergil idly picks at the grass. He isn’t all that hungry, but he can almost taste the freshly baked pastries their mother made earlier that morning. If anything, his sweet tooth is motivation enough to get him moving.

“Lunchtime!”

Vergil abruptly sits up at his brother’s sudden appearance. “What are you doing here?”

“I told Mother you’d be mad if I stopped by, but she insisted I bring you a peace offering,” Dante says. He holds up a picnic basket as well as Vergil’s bag of books.

The smell that wafts through the air is enticing enough to make Vergil forget about any and all grudges he held just a minute ago. Crossing his legs under him and refraining from any smart remarks, Dante takes it as an invitation to step further into the clearing and join him.

They sit across from each other with the basket between them, the bag of books abandoned on a stunted tree stump. Vergil is quick to grab one of the pastries he’d been daydreaming off the moment Dante peels back the cloth, but there’s enough to go around. 

The smell of grape jelly and apple tart is sweet, but not sweeter than the taste of caramelized sugar on his fingertips. Vergil wipes them on his pants just as Dante does the same. Without their mother hovering over them, they can do as they please, such as have the sweets before the main course of fresh bread rolls, cheese, ham, and tomatoes. They eat those too, just not as intended. Rather than assembling them into sandwiches, Vergil pops the cheese directly into his mouth while Dante haphazardly rolls up the ham and copies him. They both flick the cherry tomatoes into the pond in hopes the fish will eat them.

“Hey, Vergil. Think fast!” Dante chucks a tomato in the general direction of Vergil’s face.

Vergil tries to catch it between his teeth and fails. “Your aim is terrible.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re just bad at catching stuff. Here.” Dante tries again, hits him on the nose, and immediately flinches with a laugh when Vergil throws half a bread roll at his head.

“You’re just a bad shot,” Vergil mumbles. He briefly glances down at what he first assumes is an empty picnic basket but that’s when he sees it, half hidden in the napkins. “Is that…?”

Dante reaches in just as quickly as Vergil does, the two of them briefly scrambling for the red foil like their lives depend on it. Dante emerges victorious however, holding the chocolate bar well out of Vergil’s reach. “Ha! Finders keepers!”

“But I found it!” A brief scouring of the basket reveals no more secrets, and Vergil readies himself to pounce for the prize. “Give it to me or it’s going in the water.”

“That’s selfish.”

“Says the one threatening to eat it all!”

“I didn’t say I was going to eat the whole thing, Vergil. Jeez.” Once certain he wasn’t going to get tackle-rolled right into the pond, Dante unwraps the candy. “Is there anything to cut it with?”

“Just use your hands.”

“The pieces won’t be the same and you’ll fight over that, too.”

Vergil extends a hand. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

“No! Then you’ll eat the whole thing.”

“I—ugh, alright.” Vergil ponders their limited options. He gets onto his knees and gestures for Dante to do the same. “We each hold onto half of it and then try to break it down the middle.”

Dante purses his lips before agreeing, scooting closer and holding the chocolate bar in front of him. “Count of three?”

Vergil pinches half of the bar and begins the countdown, “one”.

“Two.”

“Three,” they say in unison, breaking the chocolate in half.

It isn’t a clean cut but the two are satisfied with their portions. The bar isn’t as sweet as they expected, but Vergil almost prefers it after the surplus of sugar they’ve just consumed. Which makes him wonder why their mother decided to indulge them when she usually tends to favor healthful snacks. Not that he’s complaining. Yesterday their lunch included celery sticks.

“Mother said your music lesson is going to be two hours today because you ran out when she was still talking to you,” Dante says, nibbling on the corner of his chocolate. He doesn’t sound boastful, just relaying information.

“I’ll practice for three.”

“What about today’s readings?”

“I already finished them.”

“All of it?!”

Vergil nods. “And no, you can’t copy my notes.”

“I wasn’t going to ask. I still have fifteen pages to go before I can even start writing anything down.” Dante picks up an ant that’s making its way across his dirty knee and places it on a blade of grass, out of harm’s way. “Do you think Father will ever come back?”

The last chunk of chocolate slips from Vergil’s fingers and onto his pants. He almost curses before catching himself, quickly picking it up again and fixing Dante with a confused stare. “What are you talking about? Of course he will. He would never leave and just… not come back. He always does!”

Dante finishes up and sucks his fingers clean, sitting back on his calves as he turns his head to glare at his reflection in the water. “I wish he would hurry up. It’s been months.”

“You just want to use his sword again.”

“Yeah! He said it was going to be mine when I got bigger.” Dante’s glare morphs into a grin. “Not long now. I’m getting stronger by the day.”

“I think it has less to do with strength and everything to do with skill.”

“You say that because your sword is flimsy.”

Vergil bristles. “The Yamato isn’t flimsy! Just because it isn’t as heavy or as clunky as yours doesn’t mean it’s any less good. Or that it requires any less ability to wield.”

“Not that any of that matters,” Dante says. He begins packing up what remains of their lunch, throwing whatever food is left to the fish. “Until he gets back, all we can do is study and be bored because some brothers are allergic to playing and having fun.”

“That’s exactly why you’re fifteen pages behind on schoolwork and I’m free to do as I please.”

“No, you aren’t, because you’re grounded. Besides, your free time is just spent reading even more books. Don’t you ever get tired of reading?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of bugging me?”

“No,” Dante says with a smile, “only because you’re my favorite twin.”

Vergil returns the smile as he gets up and wipes whatever may be sticking to the back of his legs. “You’re indecorous, but I guess you’re my favorite twin, too.”

“I don’t know what that means but I’m going to say you probably used that word wrong.”

Vergil takes the basket from Dante and gives him a playful shove, one that is promptly returned as they exit the clearing side by side, ready to face whatever Eva has in store for them back home.

* * *

Being grounded isn’t all bad when Mother first apologizes for reasons Vergil can’t understand. She hugs them both, holding tight with a sorrowful expression that makes anger twist in Vergil’s gut. He was the one that ran off. He and Dante were the ones arguing and should be the ones apologizing, not the other way around.

But Eva assuaged any and all fears right then and there, pressing a kiss to their foreheads and sending them on their way to the study. “I trust you two can at least get along for an hour.” She presses her index finger to the tip of Vergil’s nose. “Dante needs to catch up on his readings, after all.”

With a hand on their backs, Eva nudges them in the general direction of the staircase before vanishing into the parlor without further word.

Dante says nothing and does as he’s told, heading for the staircase.

Vergil lingers as he quietly observes the door their mother has closed behind her.

“Are you coming or not?”

“She looked so sad,” Vergil says without looking away.

“Grownups are always sad. That’s what makes you a grownup.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Mention one adult you’ve met who isn’t like that,” Dante says, and he sounds serious. 

Vergil turns to him with a pinched look and figures he’s right. From the man in the library, to Mother, adults always seem troubled by whatever is on their minds. He guesses he understands because he, too, feels troubled about the prospect of the future. Despite training and education, Vergil has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up. Father explained that they didn’t need to worry about that, that he would always be there to take care of them. But, with Sparda gone most of the time, who was going to take care of the family?

He was the oldest of the twins. Perhaps it’s his duty to take the mantle his father continues to leave behind for reasons unbeknownst to him. Perhaps it’s up to him to make sure Mother has no need to frown all the time, and that Dante doesn’t get into too much trouble. If that’s even a possibility. Vergil is familiar with the term ‘man of the house’, and maybe that’s what he must be.

The sound of Dante retreating further up the stairs grabs his attention and he follows. He takes the steps two at a time but pauses at the landing, realizing how childish a maneuver that was. He can’t act that way anymore, not when he has a duty to fulfill. Tugging on his shorts and fixing his socks, Vergil holds his head up high and walks into the study with the intention of making sure Dante is doing what he must.

For once, he is. Dante grabs a book from his backpack and settles into the window seat, his back propped up against an assortment of pillows. He pulls his knees close to his chest and sighs, leafing through the book until he finds the page he was on.

Vergil realizes he’s left his own bag back by the pond.

“I heard they’re planning to expand the town,” Dante says, ignoring the page before him in favor of staring out the arched window. “Maybe that’s why she’s upset. If they build more houses or buildings, then they’ll ruin the meadow. And the clearing, too.” He scoots closer to the side to allow Vergil some space to sit by him.

“Father can probably dissuade them.” Putting his own feet up, Vergil sits opposite of Dante and pushes the end of their shoes together. They are most likely trailing mud and dirt everywhere, but neither cares enough to remove their shoes.

Dark clouds gather over the horizon, distant streaks of lightning slicing the early afternoon sky. Birds fly out of the way, taking shelter in nearby trees that begin to sway and bow to the wind’s whim. The storm spreads far and fast. It isn’t long until rain begins to pelt down on the glass, and Vergil follows their random paths downward.

His books will be ruined if it rains any harder. The tree canopy over the clearing may be thick, but the clouds begin to take on a greenish tint, which means the oncoming storm will gradually worsen.

“Mother will kill you if she catches you sneaking out,” Dante says without looking away from the gloomy scene right outside. Trust him to know what Vergil is thinking without him saying a word. “Or worse! You’ll catch a cold.” He startles when a brilliant flash of lightning is soon followed by thunder that rattles the windows. Wide eyed, Dante reaches for the hem of Vergil’s pants and clutches tight. 

Vergil laughs, swatting Dante’s hand away. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes. Mother will truly have my head if Father’s books get ruined.”

Gathering all the bravery he can possibly muster, Dante straightens up. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“You’re terrified of thunder,” Vergil says. He crosses the study and grabs the throw blanket draped over the chair at the desk. Shaking it free of whatever crumbs Dante may have potentially gotten on it, he walks back to the window seat and throws it unceremoniously over his brother’s head.

With a silly pout, Dante unfurls the blanket and wraps it around his shoulders. “Hurry back.”

“I will,” Vergil says.

As quietly as possible, Vergil tiptoes down the staircase and out the front door.

He skips out on an umbrella, figuring it wouldn’t be smart to be walking around holding a conductor when lightning continues to ferociously cut along the sky. He does pause when he clicks the front door closed behind him, because he can almost feel it.

It’s a strange sensation, one he’s never experienced before. Vergil can sense the electricity on his skin, forcing gooseflesh to erupt and his spine to shiver. The heat of the day still lingers despite the freezing wind mussing up his hair, but with it comes a smell that turns his stomach.

Vergil scrunches up his nose in disgust and flinches when a particularly loud clap of thunder sounds dangerously close. He hesitates, debating whether his father’s books are worth the risk of getting struck by lightning.

Then again, if he goes back inside empty handed, Dante will never let it go. He can already hear him sniveling about Vergil being a scaredy-cat, despite him being the one hiding under a blanket due to a bit of thunder.

_It’s just a little rain,_ Vergil tells himself before steeling his resolve and breaking off into a run towards the clearing.

It isn’t a far trek, but Vergil finds himself going faster, pushing as hard as his short legs can go when the thunder grows closer, more incessant. The distance seems to increase and his heart begins to pound wildly in his chest, his lungs struggling to keep up when finally, finally, he reaches the cluster of trees.

Safely inside, Vergil bends over and rests his weight on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. He’s soaked to the bone, his feet squelching uncomfortable inside of his shoes. It’s freezing out, and he hurriedly grabs his discarded bag and slings it over his shoulder.

As he expected, the canopy is thick enough to let up some of the heavy rainfall but not enough to stop it completely. The sound of pounding rain on leaves is deafening when coupled with his panting, but Vergil favors it over being out in the open. He figures he can stay here for a while, at least until the rain eases enough for the run back home.

Against his better judgement, Vergil leans against the sturdiest of trees and waits. He rubs water out of his eyes and shakes his head to free his hair from the heaviness. He really wishes he had listened to his brother. He’s wet and cold and miserable, and there is nothing he wouldn’t give to be safely under the covers with Dante, preferably sitting in front of the fireplace with a cup of hot cocoa.

_I just have to run back_, he reasons. It will only take him a minute or two, three tops if the terrain is muddy. His shoes aren’t meant for outdoor play and odds are he will slip more than he did on his way to the clearing. _I could run barefoot. But that will make me more conducive to lightning._

Vergil isn’t entirely sure why he’s suddenly so perturbed by the presence of lightning considering he enjoys watching the bolts dance across the sky. He’s fond of weathering storms from the comfort of his room, as well as playing out in the rain. In fact, he and Dante often went out in search of frogs when days were dreary. It boggles him, this sudden anxiety that thrums in the cavern of his chest.

It’s almost as if he fears something hidden in the storm. A vivid fantasy of eyes watching from the clouds makes Vergil feel sicker than he did when he first smelled that wretched scent outside of the manor. That foul odor of rotten eggs and some other substance he can’t put his finger on.

Clutching the strap of his bag, Vergil decides to make the run back. He made the choice earlier today to be who he must in his father’s absence, and he isn’t being very Sparda-like by hiding under a tree. He will run home, wet and muddy, with his father’s books, and boast about his little uneventful adventure.

But another crash of thunder makes him cower. It sounded far too close, rattling his bones and hurting his ears. The sound roots him to the spot because it doesn’t sound like thunder, not entirely, but there is no other way to describe it. Threading through the sonorous booming is a scream, a cry, a dozen other noises Vergil has only ever heard in the inescapable depths of nightmares. It rips the air from his lungs as electricity tickles his feet and crawls up his legs.

Something isn’t right. There’s something right outside of the trees. Waiting.

Vergil stays off the path as he slinks towards the makeshift entrance, making sure to stay hidden from whomever may be lingering about with the intent to cause harm. He doesn’t see anyone, but the sickening waves of nausea become stronger. He stops, leans against a tree trunk until the urge passes, but that’s not enough to stop him from gagging.

He needs to get home, _now_.

Breaking off into a run, Vergil continuously slips and falls. He doesn’t look over his shoulder out of fear of seeing something, anything, close on his heels, but the anxiety urges him to push faster. Heat slowly crawls up his muddy legs, and for one heart-stopping moment it feels like his feet are no longer touching the ground.

“Vergil!”

The booming voice freezes him to the spot, its familiarity washing over him like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. Vergil turns around and that’s when he sees it, the tall dark figure half eclipsed by the torrential rain not twenty feet away from him.

“Father!”

With renewed life taking over his limbs, Vergil runs towards him. Strong arms scoop him right up and all Vergil can do is wrap his own around Sparda’s neck, sobbing against him as the wind’s howls begin to quieten.

“What in the heavens are you doing out in the middle of a storm?” Sparda says against his ear, tightly holding Vergil to him. “You’re shivering.”

Vergil doesn’t speak. He simply holds on tightly as he’s carried back home, his face buried against his father’s neck until the front door locks the awful storm outside of the manor where it can’t hurt him. Sparda puts him down in the foyer, kneeling before him and turning him left and right to make certain he isn’t hurt.

“I’m alright,” Vergil says in the quietest voice he can muster.

“Thank the goddess for that,” Sparda says. He deftly undoes the buttons of Vergil’s soaked shirt, peeling it off and letting it fall onto the floor just as Eva peeks in through the doorway.

“Oh!” She hesitates only for a moment, her wide-eyed expression switching from Sparda to Vergil before she’s moving with singular intent. She removes the shawl around her shoulders and quickly wraps Vergil in it, pulling him into her arms and pressing worried kisses into his hair. “Darling, what were you thinking?”

“He was out by the grove,” Sparda says, rubbing the space between Vergil’s shoulder blades to warm him. “Where’s your brother?”

The distant patter of bare feet against marble floors answers that question as Dante appears on the second-floor landing, blanket still wrapped around his shoulder. He gasps, then bursts out into joyous laughter as he drops the throw and races his way down the staircase and into his father’s arms, knocking him over in the process.

Sparda replies with equal amounts of laughter, ruffling Dante’s hair. “There’s my little rascal.” Not one to be stingy with his affection, Sparda also brings Vergil into his embrace, settling both his sons on his lap as he sits on the cold and muddy floor. “I’ve missed you boys.”

“We missed you more,” Dante announces, pulling away only to beam up at their mother. “He’s back!”

Eva smiles down at him, carding her long fingers through his hair in order to fix the mess Sparda has made. “Indeed he is, love.” She leans down as Sparda tilts his head upward, meeting halfway for a brief kiss that has Dante making a disgusted sound. “Welcome home.”

* * *

“I told you lightning is scary,” Dante says, gingerly putting an adhesive bandage over the scrapes on Vergil’s knees.

The storm has let up, leaving nothing but the occasional sound of distant thunder and dark clouds in its wake. It darkens the manor’s hallways and rooms, but Dante is mindful enough to flick on a lamp.

“That wasn’t an ordinary storm,” Vergil says. He’s curled into himself, watching Dante work as their parents have a hushed conversation in the neighboring room. “Do you think it was Father’s doing?”

“Don’t be silly. Demons can’t control the weather.” Dante takes a damp cloth and carefully wipes it down Vergil’s legs, making certain he’s gotten every speck of mud and grass stains. “Besides, even if there was something scary in the storm, Father’s here now. Nothing’s bigger or scarier than him.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Vergil says as he takes Dante’s hand and is helped up onto his feet. “His timing is impeccable.”

“Yeah. You probably would’ve been bacon had he not shown up when he did.”

“It’s not funny, Dante.”

“I’m not laughing,” Dante says in all seriousness. “You could have gotten hurt and I wasn’t even there to protect you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Tough on you, because we agreed to protect each other.”

“When did we establish that?”

“Right now.” Dante holds out his finger. “We’re pinky swearing on it.”

“That’s not even the right finger,” Vergil says, but obliges nonetheless. Hooking their index fingers together, they shake once, twice, and then let go on the third one. “There. I guess this means we’re forever stuck together.”

Dante grins. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, brother.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparda and Eva are a match made somewhere otherworldly. Marriage is all about compromise, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather short chapter that serves somewhat as a prequel to the _actual_ "plot".
> 
> I said I'd be nice to Vergil this weekend. I lied.

“This is a wretched idea,” Eva announces. She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring daggers at her husband who sits behind his desk. He’s half hidden by a tower of books. “You’re gone for nearly a year and then return with this? That you would even consider something so cruel.”

“There is nothing to consider,” Sparda says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. He looks thoughtful yet resigned, neither a sign of good things to come. “Mundus gave me his terms.”

“His terms are shit.”

“Eva.”

“Do not take that tone with me,” she says, stalking towards him and slamming her hands down on the desk, rattling the miscellaneous items scattered atop it and knocking over a pen holder. “I need you to take a moment and think about the consequences, the irreversible damage you will be doing to your children.”

Sparda looks away from her, focusing his sight on the painting above the fireplace. “One day you will understand that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

“That does not matter. The many and the few do not matter. When presented with a choice between the world and your children – those boys should be the answer without hesitation. Dammit, Sparda, look at me!”

Unnaturally pale eyes turn to her, and the gleam of grief is overwhelming to bear. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Eva pushes away to pace the room, rage seething dangerously close to her fingertips. She takes even breaths in the silence her husband grants her, trying to reign in the monstrous emotions within. Sighing, Eva kneads at her own shoulder. “Please don’t assume I’m blind to your cause.”

“If Mundus does not step down from the throne, there will be no realm, above or below, for our children to live in.”

“Sparda…”

“It won’t be a permanent separation. They will have the opportunity to see each other.”

“They’re inseparable,” Eva whispers, the knot in her throat tightening until unshed tears gather in her eyes. Her words tremble with raw sorrow. “For all their fighting and bickering, separating them will only destroy them.”

“I’m sorry, my love.”

“You aren’t.”

“With the Underworld under my rule, we can coexist—”

“Is ruling truly more important to you than your family?”

“Ruling is the key to my family’s survival,” Sparda says tersely. “You’d understand if you spent your days surrounded by these creatures. We are bred for war, destruction, savagery. The concept of family is so foreign… and to me, so precious, I cannot bear the thought of losing you. Mundus has granted me an olive branch and I intend to seize it while I have the chance.”

“How so very generous of him,” Eva spits out. “Granting his best soldier the throne so long as he makes certain his twins aren’t together. You cannot possibly tell me nothing about this sounds the vaguest bit off-putting to you. That demon is up to something, Sparda. And you’re buying right into it.”

“I have no other choice.”

Eva stands before the fireplace, her back to Sparda as she subconsciously caresses her chin in thought. The idea is appalling, resting like a sour aftertaste on the back of her tongue. The boys are only eight years old. How dangerous could they truly be? What threat could they possibly pose to the most powerful demon to have ever roamed the realms when half the time all they do is argue over who gets the last crumpet? They can barely hold their own swords.

“How would we even—”

“Dante comes with me.”

Eva scoffs, then laughs. “Clearly you made up your mind long before even consulting me.”

“Listen to me,” Sparda says, trying to appeal to her logical reasoning. “Vergil is far better suited for diplomacy than his brother will ever be. Dante? That boy is nothing but brute force. If I can train him—”

“My son will not be another foot soldier in your army.”

“Your son will be a general. A king, Eva, in due time. Once it is all said and done, past all of this, together, they will make both the realms a place not just worth living for, but a place for us to thrive.”

“How often? How often will they be able to see each other?”

Sparda thinks for a moment, waving his hand around as if digging his own head for an answer. “Their birthday. They can spend their birthday together.”

“Once a _year_?” she says, incredulous that he would even think this sustainable. “You’re mad.”

“I’m aware.”

Eva turns her back to him again, arms stiffly held by her sides. She can’t allow this. The boys will resent them both for as long as they live, and that is a life she never wants to lead. There is no doubt Sparda loves his children, otherwise he wouldn’t be going to these lengths, but he can never truly grasp the bond a mother has with her children. Demon or human, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Eva carried them, birthed them, nursed them, held them every night while Sparda commanded his armies.

Armies Eva would have once cut down regardless of allegiance. Or, considering her change of heart, helped her husband lead. But motherhood has taken precedence, and her sons will always come first.

She hears Sparda get up from his chair and walk towards her, and she frowns when his hands tenderly grip her shoulders. He nuzzles the side of her face, presses a lingering kiss to her neck while his hands relocate to her hips, pulling her back against him. It’s an intimate embrace, one that is aided by the heat of the fire in front of her.

“Would you have come with me, if things were different?” he asks against her ear.

Eva places her full weight against him. “No,” she says simply. Turning in his arms, she leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. “The Underworld already has a ruler.”

Sparda laughs despite the tension, and the deep rumbling sound resonates in her thighs. “Then rule as my queen.”

“Unless I take the crown from your head, my dear, I would be seen as nothing but a concubine.”

“Demons barely understand the concept of a chain of command. And those that do have a tendency to ignore it.”

“My point exactly.” She kisses his other cheek, before pressing one more to his lips. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our argument.”

With a mischievous grin, Sparda grabs her by the hips and hoists her up, her legs immediately wrapping around him for support. Eva giggles as she’s deposited onto the desk, quickly working on hiking up her dress to properly accommodate his hulking form.

“I’m in no way, shape, or form trying to distract you. I’m simply making up for those long months away from our bed.”

“You monster. You absolute devilish fiend.”

“Do you remember the night the boys were conceived?”

Eva laughs, smacking his shoulder. “How can I possibly forget you trudging through the doors, clad in your armor and fresh from a battle not of this world?”

“You liked my horns.”

“I do like your horns.”

“I gave you all you asked of me without question, because I knew you wouldn’t ask for anything beyond your capability to handle. I trusted you as explicitly as you trusted me.”

She remembers quite vividly the request she so ardently made that night. When Sparda’s human form was no longer enough to satisfy her lust, he had cast away his human visage for his true nature. He took her with ruthless abandon and animalistic fury, and Eva had laughed, spurred him on.

In retrospect, she had been reckless. She had endangered her life for the sake of satisfying the itch only mind-blowing sex could scratch – mind-blowing sex with the second most powerful demon in creation. The memory is a fond one, especially when not a month later she sat atop the hill their home now rests on, delivering to Sparda the news of her pregnancy.

With her heart on her sleeve, Eva collapses onto him. “I still trust you,” she says, unwilling to mask the hurt from her voice.

“Please continue to do so,” Sparda says, dropping a kiss onto her golden hair. “Trust my word when I say I will only do what’s best for our sons, even if they view me as the villain.”

“They would never.”

“You underestimate their ability to hold a grudge.”

They lapse into silence, idly caressing each other to the music of the crackling fire. The dark corners of the study are filled with dancing shadows, rejoicing in the reunion of husband and wife. Red Grave is quiet and peaceful beyond the brick walls of their manor, unaware of the suffering to be delivered to two young hearts.

Eva’s nails dig into Sparda’s back as tears finally break free. “Make love to me,” she whispers with an air of finality she can’t herself explain.

After one more kiss to her lips, Sparda falls to his knees.

* * *

Eva’s mother once told her that no war is ever worth fighting if its meaning is lost. Love, she had said, will always be the root of all conflict. The love for lovers, family, power, wealth – that cog behind the machine will always be the incessant greed for love.

She has waged many wars since her youth, against her father, against her illness, against the legions of the Underworld; Eva has fought long and she has fought hard, never once surrendering her cause.

As a warrior, one learns to compartmentalize. The lesser of two evils is a creed to live by, and that she did. Eva was a soldier first and a person second, blindly serving until she met Sparda, only putting down her weapon when her sons came into this world. Even still, she made certain to keep it close.

Her mother also said that there exists no bigger grief than being unable to sooth one’s child’s suffering. And that, Eva learns, is the hardest war to win.

She’s proud of Vergil as he stands by her, watching Sparda walk out the front doors with Dante by his side.

No real goodbyes are spoken. Not very much is said at all.

Eva had kissed Dante’s hair and ignored Sparda out of pettiness, even as he tried to mutter words of solace.

The finality of closing doors startles her as they block out the blinding sun that had spilled in through them just moments ago. The breeze dies and so does the fresh smell of petrichor in that brisk morning air. The manor feels empty and cold, its silence deafening.

A silence that is not long after interrupted by the soft thump of knobby knees hitting the marble floors, soon followed by the wailing of a little boy.

Vergil’s cries echo off the impenetrable walls, trapped within a vacuum that only he and his mother can hear. He screams and shouts nonsensical things that tear her to shreds where she stands, clutching her shawl as if it were a lifeline. Eva can only stand as Vergil’s last bastion, her heart shattering into a million unsalvageable pieces as her son screams for his brother to return, begs his father to bring him back – _I’ll do anything! Please! I need him!_

Minutes feel like hours as they stand before the wooden doors, as Eva allows Vergil to expel his grief in any way he can. Even as he stutters, hands scrambling for something to grasp, sobs shaking his tiny body, she allows it.

It’s when he falls eerily silent that Eva finally moves, kneeling before him and bringing him into her arms. She crushes him against her chest, holding on for dear life as he trembles and hiccups, mucus and spit staining her black dress.

“Bring him back,” Vergil says, words broken between gasping breaths. “Please, bring my brother back.”

“If only I could, my love,” Eva says. She holds him until Vergil’s breathing eventually evens out, his features going slack with sleep. His usually peaceful features are contorted by anguish and despair, his sleep now haunted by nightmares beyond her grasp of banishing.

Scooping him up in her arms, Eva carries him up the staircase. She makes the split-second decision to let him sleep in her bed, given she cannot begin to fathom how Vergil would react to waking up alone in a room that he’s always shared with his brother.

With him safely held against her, Eva can only hope her boys heal and rise above this. And most of all, she hopes Sparda is every bit as receptive to Dante’s heartbreak as she’s been with Vergil’s.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication is key, boys.

“Look lively, Vergil,” Eva says as she rearranges the flowers on the pedestal at the bottom of the staircase. “You finally get to see your father and brother against after so long.”

Vergil steps out of the way as a butler hurries by with a handful of delicate glassware. “Forgive me if I don’t seem ecstatic.” He backs up against a wall when a handful of people emerge from the dining room, carrying all sorts of vases and fabrics in preparation for the party. “I’m fairly skeptical.”

Eva mentions something or another about the curtains in the ballroom to a young girl, before turning to Vergil with a quiet smile. Walking up to him, she caresses his jaw before leaning up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You have every right to be, love. But rest assured, they will be here.”

Vergil takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “They’ve lied to us before. What makes this year any different?”

“It’s you and Dante’s eighteenth birthday,” Eva says in a warm and understanding tone. “You of all people understand the challenges of diplomacy. Your father has been hard at work correcting the mistakes of those who ruled before him.”

“But he can’t even write his son a letter.”

“Dante writes you.”

“It’s been two years since I last heard from him,” Vergil says with thinly disguised anger. “I’ve felt like a dog begging for scraps, sending letters in hopes he remembers he even has a brother.”

Threading her arm through Vergil’s, Eva guides them out of the cramped manor and into the fresh autumn air that smells of crisp fallen leaves and freshly clipped grass. The light breeze and open space is a welcome reprieve to the hustle and bustle of people inside his home, all of them running around like chickens with their heads cut off in a desperate attempt to get all preparations into place before time runs out.

“Do me a favor tonight,” Eva says as she leads him away from the gardens and towards the grove, hiking her dress up to her knees and bunching it up in her fist. “Please mind that temper of yours. There are important members of Parliament intending to meet with your father, and it’s best not to ruffle any feathers during dinner.”

Vergil scoffs. Of course there are ulterior motives to Sparda’s visit. Hell forbid he attend simply to see his son. “I assume Dante will be spending most of his visit behind closed doors as well?”

“I’ve heard your brother hasn’t changed much over the years. I doubt he can sit still long enough.”

“To think he will rule one day.”

Eva considers him as they make their way down the sloping meadow, the sound of distant traffic interrupting the once idyllic landscape. “You are a prince, too.”

“Dante is the heir apparent,” he says, bitterly, “Father obviously chose him when we were children. I’m prince in title only. In reality, I’m merely a glorified messenger.”

“You are to become an ambassador,” Eva corrects. “Your job is far more important than you think it to be. It is you, not your brother, who will lay the groundwork in truly unifying our worlds.”

“Yet I won’t be the one meeting with the politicians today.”

“You’ve yet to finish your studies.”

“How could I forget?”

“Vergil,” Eva says, bringing them to a stop. She turns to stand in front of him, fussily fixing his cravat where it has slipped out of his vest. “I apologize if this birthday isn’t what you wished for.”

“Mother, I’ve long since outgrown the appeal of birthday parties.” Ever since his brother and father began to break promise after promise, leaving him and Eva with a surplus of food and unspoken disappointment, Vergil grew to despise them. “They’re… superfluous.” _And lonely._

“Still.” She pats his chest, smiling up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You’re only eighteen once. What I do not know will not bother me.”

Vergil frowns at her, confused by her insinuation. “I’m not even of legal age.”

“I bet that’s never stopped your brother.”

“I’m not Dante,” Vergil says, calm and slow, as if Eva has forgotten and refuses to remember. Taking hold of her wrists, he pulls away. “And I will never be him.”

Pale green eyes stare at him with an unnameable emotion, before turning away and tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Eva clears her throat, adjusting her red shawl. “I am well aware of that.”

“If you want him back, I suggest speaking to Sparda.”

“Mind your tone,” she says in soft warning. “You may be taller than me, but I am still your mother.”

Vergil bites the inside of his lip, lowering his eyes at the reprimand. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

Accepting the apology, Eva places her hands on either of Vergil’s arms and brings him towards her. He goes without word, tucking his forehead against her neck as she embraces him with a warmth only a mother could carry deep within her soul. “I understand why this day is always so difficult for you, darling. But you are not alone. I will always be here to sneak cake with once the guests have gone.”

Vergil’s laugh is a quiet one. “Thank you.”

“Now, I have a small surprise for you.” He straightens up only to find Eva gesturing towards the overgrown edges of the secluded grove. “Once you’ve had your fill, come find me.” And with that, she pats his arm one last time before embarking on the short trek back to the manor.

Adjusting his coat back into place, Vergil eyes the trees with trepidation. For all of her decorum, Eva does have a tendency to be unorthodox every once in a while. It serves to keep him on his toes, amusing him in ways average things fail to do. Nonetheless, nobody knows him better than his mother. Whatever it is she has stashed in what used to be his favorite hiding spot as a child must be worthy of unveiling.

Smoothing back his hair, Vergil shimmies his way through the widest of narrows paths among the ancient tree trunks. He tries to do so without much noise, not wanting to scare off any local wildlife that may be wandering about, but the only living thing in the immediate vicinity picks on Vergil’s presence regardless of how unobtrusive he tries to be.

Vergil freezes in his tracks, one of his boots still lodged between thick tree roots protruding from the ground. He blinks once, twice, breathes in deep as his chest simultaneous crumbles and implodes with an emotion so unspeakably ground-shaking Vergil fears he might collapse.

Crouched beside the shrinking pond, poking at a floating decaying log with a branch and donning an obnoxiously red coat is his brother.

Dante turns around and his face instantly lights up into a blinding grin. “Hey, Vergil.”

Eventually freeing himself from the root’s grasp, Vergil straightens up. He’s at a loss for words, grasping at a dozen stray thoughts of what to say or do. Should he punch him? Hug him? Kick him right into the water for nearly a decade’s worth of lies? Instead, Vergil takes a moment to look at his twin. Still identical for the exception of his hair, which hangs over his face in an unkempt mess.

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” is the first thing to tumble out of his mouth in an uncharacteristic display of unguarded bewilderment. He is also heavily armed, with a pair of pistols strapped to a holster that must chafe against his bare chest. The Rebellion rests at his back.

Dante nods, then shrugs. “Not what I was expecting, but yeah, I’m not.”

There’s a long moment where the twins simply stare at each other from across the way, neither sure of what comes next. For Vergil, at least, that sudden and overwhelming sense of wonder and joy quickly dissolves to fuming rage.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Vergil snaps, fingers twitching at his sides.

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific there.”

“Where have you been all this time?! What could have possibly been so bloody important that you couldn’t even write me a damn letter?!”

Dante straightens up to his full height, and Vergil quickly glances to make sure that it is, in fact, his boots that give him the advantage of a couple of extra inches. It is the boots, but Vergil is overcome with the idea that it would not matter how much taller or bigger Dante has gotten – he would easily, without a second’s hesitation, engage him.

“I’ve been busy,” Dante says defensively, finally taking the first step forward. “Unlike some people, I don’t get to sit on my ass all day and read poetry.”

“Neither have you had the time to shower, it would seem. You reek.”

Dante opens his mouth, then immediately closes it. He tries again. “Yeah, well, you smell like Mother.”

“At least I’m acquainted with the concept of personal hygiene.”

“Good to know you’re the same stuffy brat you were ten years ago.”

Toe to toe, they both hold back solely due to the fact that they’re expected to be presentable for the rest of the day. Vergil doesn’t know how long Dante will be here, if he will even have the chance to exact sweet satisfaction from punishing his brother, but all he knows is that if it were just the two of them for however long, Vergil would not have hesitated.

“And you’re still an insufferable thorn in my side. Clearly Father failed to teach you how to be a proper human being,” Vergil says, then feigns understanding. “Actually, now that I think about it, he’s raised you well within your parameters.”

The punch that connects with Vergil’s jaw and the retaliating swing that follows turns all opportunity of a civil reunion to dust.

* * *

The only acknowledgement Vergil receives from his father is a blank stare from across the dining table hosting nearly two dozen guests. Vergil turns away, avoiding his mother’s distressed look in the process.

The hushed conversations that transpire all around him are deafening.

Both human and demon diplomats sit intermingled, all uncomfortable and wary but civil enough. Far more civil than Vergil and his brother have been.

Speaking of which, Dante has cleaned up for dinner, sporting an underwhelming shirt under the same red coat he had been wearing earlier. Sparda doesn’t seem too worried about his choice, but Eva fidgets with the desire to put her son in something presentable for their guests.

Poor choice of fashion aside, the true reason for Sparda and Eva’s pointed glances are due to the physical state of their sons’ faces.

No amount of demonic healing is quick enough to erase the black eye Dante is sporting, nor Vergil’s split lip. Dante avoids opening his mouth too wide thanks to a handful of missing teeth, and Vergil tries his hardest not to walk with a limp or favor his right arm as he tries to elegantly take his drink. They did quite a number on each other and the sheer exasperation emanating from Sparda can be felt across the table.

That someone has wronged the Demon King is blatantly obvious. That someone being Vergil makes things more complicated.

Small talk is exchanged with surprising ease, Vergil engaging in conversation with a female he had thought human until her eyes flashed golden in the dimly lit hall. She’s scantily dressed, half of her cleavage exposed to the ogling delight of the older human gentlemen, but she’s knowledgeable on the subject of literature so Vergil entertains her for the remainder of the evening.

No cake is served, and he is only partly disappointed.

As the table is cleared and the diplomats follow Sparda and Dante to the drawing room, Vergil remains. His fingers dance over the polished silverware on the table, dragging over the sharp end of the steak knife that went unused. Every bite he took of his food tasted of despair.

Eva’s hand on his shoulder startles him. “There is tea in the parlor,” she says before leaving the room altogether.

He sits alone for what feels like hours, until the maids enter the hall to light the candelabra once night falls. Pointless, he thinks, when there’s a light switch right by the doorway. He’s reminded again of the importance of appearance, of how far a façade can reach, how aesthetics can insidiously influence the outcome of policies.

His father is fighting a war outside the boundaries of a battlefield for the sake of freedom. Of course there is no time for frivolous letters or childish parties. This isn’t the time for petty rivalries or rising to the bait dangled by vexing brothers.

Vergil has failed. Ten years of training, of learning how to wield his sword, how to project himself in a desirable fashion to get what he needs, how to be personable and approachable when he is, in fact, none of those things. A decade’s worth of devoted studies for nothing, all crushed under the pressure of his brother’s radiant gaze.

Pushing himself away from the table, Vergil pointedly knocks over his glass of water in frustration.

Tugging on his cravat to loosen it, Vergil quickly makes his way out of the manor, past bowing butlers and maids that greet him in monotone voices.

An arm stops his advance as the wooden doors close behind him, and Vergil’s first instinct is to lash out. The ensuring skirmish gets him pinned to the still warm brick wall, a gloved hand pressed to his mouth and Dante leaning in close, shushing all protest. He doesn’t let up until he’s sure Vergil won’t yell at him.

“We need to talk,” Dante whispers, grabbing Vergil by the wrist and hauling him in the direction of the gardens. “That kick really hurt, you know.”

“You punched me first.”

“You were being a jerk.” Dante hides them in the bushes, looking around and only moving forward when he’s certain there is no one in the vicinity. “Hurry up, before anyone sees us.”

“What are you doing? This is your home, too. There’s literally no need for us to be sneaking around.”

“It’s more fun if it feels like we’re being sneaky,” Dante says with a sly smirk. “Come on.”

The gazebo has been home to many conversations between their parents, mostly lighthearted ones that ended up in impromptu dances and exchanged gifts. Its placement is specific enough to shield those beneath the roof from any prying eyes attempting to steal a peek from the manor’s many windows, granting it a sense of illicit intimacy Vergil has always shied away from. He would much rather do his readings under the tree in their front yard.

The moon hangs high and fat in the sky, painting the abundant rose bushes and perfectly trimmed hedges with its silvery glow. The same glow that lights up Dante’s crystalline eyes.

Vergil sits on the wrap-around bench, legs crossed at the knees as he considers Dante with suspicion. “Whatever it is you want to say, be quick about it. I’ve got things to do.”

“Unless those things involve skulking around, bullcrap.” Dante remains standing, looking down at him with a look that see-saws between intrigue, worry, and something Vergil can’t quite pinpoint. “This is going to sound stupid, but there isn’t much time.” Clearing his throat, Dante crosses his arms over his chest in a show of bravado. “Can I trust you?”

Vergil stares at him, unblinking. “You’re being serious.”

“Yes, I am! I need to know if you can keep a secret.”

Suspicion spikes tenfold. Vergil briefly looks over his shoulder to make sure this isn’t some sort of practical joke, but they are alone. The only sounds that fill the night, other than the muffled chatter of diplomats through a closed window a few stories up, are the trills and buzzing of bugs.

“Can you keep a secret, Vergil?” Dante asks again, the urgency in his tone making Vergil nod before he can think better of it. “Good, because Father and I are heading back tonight.”

Vergil had considered the possibility, but hearing Dante confirm it makes his stomach sink. “Understandably.”

“I know why Mundus wanted us separated.”

The sudden revelation lands like a blow to his chest. Vergil forgets himself, his mouth slightly parting in shock. He unfolds his legs in order to lean forward, resting his elbows on his knees while staring up at Dante in a silent gesture to continue.

“I don’t have the whole picture, not yet, but I’ve gathered enough information to know something isn’t right,” Dante says. He moves forward, opting to kneel in front of Vergil to speak to him in a hushed tone. “You and I, brother, together we’re a weapon capable of destroying every bit of Mundus if we wanted to. I don’t know how, exactly, but that’s what’s he’s afraid of. That’s the reason why he forfeited the throne to Sparda, to keep an eye on all of us.”

Vergil holds up a hand, prompting Dante to pause. “How did you come by any of this information?”

“Demons are horrible gossips,” Dante gripes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “All they do is talk and talk and talk. It’s freaking annoying.”

“Is Father aware of this?”

“Kind of? Not entirely, I don’t think. But…” Dante stops again, searching for the right words, “this is why we haven’t kept in contact. You saw him today. The Dark Knight turned Demon King, sporting glasses and a ponytail. He doesn’t want to accept it but he’s losing traction. Every other week there’s a new big bad who thinks they’re hot shit challenging the old man for the throne. How long until he loses?”

Vergil sees his point, but Sparda has always had an affinity for the nobility of the human world. While not averse to brandishing his demonic armor, his Father has always favored the fashion of human royalty. Ruffled shirts and mauve overcoats make him no less powerful.

“He won’t lose.”

“If he does the throne goes to me, and I don’t want it.”

“Dante--”

“No. You don’t know what it’s like.” His words are hollow. “Anyways, long story short, something nasty is afoot and I don’t know what it is, but I think, that whatever it is, is going to come for you.”

Vergil’s eyes widen at this, tension slowly coiling down his back muscles. “Here I thought you’d dragged me out here for a gift. Instead all I get is doom and gloom.”

“Sorry about that,” Dante says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “But you need to be ready. The entire Underworld knows that you’re my weakness as much as Mother is Father’s. That’s why we’ve had to keep our distance, break our promises.”

Realization begins to dawn on him, and Vergil feels yet another wave of regret come over him. That he would doubt his brother and father, blame them for forces out of their control, when all they have been doing is trying to protect them. “That’s the reason for today’s meeting,” Vergil says. “Merely an excuse for us to spend a matter of hours together under the guise of politics.”

Dante nods his head. “There’s my brainiac of a twin.”

“Does this mean I owe you an apology?”

“For being an asshole? Definitely.”

They lapse into comforting silence similar to the ones they used to share as children moments before sleep claimed them. Ten years of missed conversations happen in that brief span of time, a decade of exchanged secrets and devilish plans that would get them in trouble. Ten years they will never get back, and Vergil is aggrieved by however many more will slip by once Dante and Sparda steal away into the night once more.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“That lady you were talking to tonight. Do you like her?”

Vergil cants his head to the side, trying and failing to follow. “She was pleasant.”

“No comment on her tits?”

A pinprick of heat blooms along the column of Vergil’s neck and he promptly looks away from Dante, fingers twitching underneath his chin. “I refuse to even entertain this conversation.”

“Aw, come on. I thought they were pretty nice to look at. Bet they’re soft, too.”

“Dante,” Vergil hisses, aware enough of his surroundings to realize the murmur of the meeting has ended. People may be about. “Stop it.”

“I knew it! You’re still a virgin, aren’t you? I won’t tell.”

“I—well—yes. Of course I am,” he says, mustering as much maturity as physically possible while overcome by embarrassment. “Aren’t you?”

Dante doesn’t answer. Instead, he grins at Vergil with a mischievous leer in his eye. “You’re an easy target to pick on, big brother.” He scoots closer, much to Vergil’s dismay, but he doesn’t pull away. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret of my own.” Dante crowds into his space, leaning up to peck Vergil’s cheek with his lips. “I think you grew up to be pretty damn hot.”

“We’re identical.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not a little narcissistic, too.”

Much to his disquiet, he is. “You’re appalling.”

“If we had the time,” Dante says, nuzzling the side of Vergil’s face until he’s whispering against his ear, “I wouldn’t mind being the one to take your virginity.”

A kick square to the chest sends Dante flying onto his back, his head knocking into a wooden pole.

“We’re _siblings_,” Vergil nearly spits out the word, mortified that Dante would even harbor such a licentious thought. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I? Really? Because you looked pretty damn comfy with me all up in your space not a second ago.”

Vergil seethes. “There is a line between physical affection and, and—” he stammers, the words dying away when he fails to muster any sort of complete thought. “Where did this suddenly come from?”

“You felt it, too, didn’t you?” Dante prompts, scrambling to his feet with giddy delight. “That… pull, when I said that.”

“I don’t know what kind of studying you’ve done while in Hell, but, yes, biology calls it teenage hormones.”

“No, no, it wasn’t that. It was different, like… like sticking a magnet to a refrigerator.”

“You’re mad.”

“Maybe,” Dante concedes, wiping dirt off his coat. “But this would actually explain a whole lot—”

They both freeze at the sound of their father calling out Dante’s name in the distance.

Whatever ill feelings stirred in Vergil during the exchange vanishes, leaving in its wake nothing but the indescribable urge to cling to his brother and never let him leave. He can’t do this again. He can’t live another decade without his other half, regardless of how often they try to kill each other over senseless things.

“Please,” Vergil says before he can think better of it, grabbing Dante’s arm hard enough to bruise. “Don’t leave me again.”

The cockiness that has been a permanent fixture on Dante’s feature crumbles. “You know I can’t stay,” Dante whispers, and before either can step away they fall into each other, clinging as if it were their last moments alive.

Vergil’s arms wrap around Dante in a death grip, unwilling to let his brother go as he buries his face in his shoulder and takes his scent deep into his lungs. He melts against Dante, losing himself in the tender safety they took for granted as children. The arms that hold Vergil, in turn, are like vices; strong, powerful, unyielding. For the first time in a very long time, home feels like a reality rather than the opaque memory of a dream.

Sparda calls again, and Dante reluctantly pulls away. He reaches into his coat, however, and pulls out a small packet which he hands over to Vergil.

“Seeds,” he explains. “There’s no time, but I need you to plant them as soon as possible. There should be a book in our library explaining how to care for it. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone eat the fruit, do you understand?”

Vergil nods his head, still clinging to Dante’s sleeve. “Whatever you need.”

It’s Dante’s turn to nod, his smile small and cracking. “I’ll catch you on the flipside, okay?” But before they truly part ways, Dante dares to steal a kiss from Vergil’s lips. “We’re different from humans,” he quickly explains, extricating himself from Vergil’s stunned hold. “They’re morals don’t really apply to us.”

For that brief instant, Vergil doesn’t really care. Dante’s mouth had felt amazingly soft against his, warm and present, and he resents not spending every waking moment they’ve spent together kissing like this.

Sparda’s call grows ever closer and Dante struggles to go to him, but this time it’s Vergil who frenziedly smashes their mouths together for a quick and sloppy kiss. He feels it, then, the physical drag towards his brother Dante had been rambling about mere moments ago. Holding onto the sides of Dante’s face, Vergil brushes his lips against his over and over again, unpracticed and clumsily until Dante nips his bottom lip.

They part slowly, breathing heavily. The look in Dante’s eyes is nothing short of frightening, a hunger so brutal, so animalistic it inspires a throb of want below Vergil’s belt. All previous reservations cast to the wind, Vergil _needs_ him in any way he can have him.

_“Dante!”_

“Dammit.” Snapping out of it, Dante quickly deposits the seed packet into Vergil’s jacket pocket. “I gotta go.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Vergil is left standing there, heartbroken once more and shamefully aroused, and there is nothing he can possibly do about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate answers for unfortunate souls.

The manor gardens flourish under Vergil’s careful hands and watchful eyes despite his pronounced absence over the years. He graciously asked his mother not to tend to it while he completed his studies abroad, meeting only slight hesitancy on her behalf but otherwise full compliance. 

Vergil isn’t gone for very long, and even so he occasionally drops in to make sure Eva is alright and set his mind at ease at the sight of his brother’s hellish plant flourishing. The blooms are a nightmare to see to with scarcely any book, in Sparda’s library or otherwise, explaining how. Red flowers the size of his head with wispy, tentacle-like stamens adorn the thick knots that comprise its trunk. It’s more of a tree, really, and Vergil constantly wonders what in the heavens was going through Dante’s head when he handed him the seeds.

There is one thing he knows for certain, however, and that’s that it gorges itself on the taste of blood. That’s mainly the reason why he is adamant about keeping his mother away from it. The tree doesn’t care for his blood, part demon that he is, but Eva’s is fair game. Although his mother is no stranger to infernal life, he would much rather play it safe.

Which is why he tenses up when he feels her saunter into his garden as he’s posed over a particularly stubborn yet perfectly average rose bush.

“I see how it is. Come into my house, don’t even drop by to say hello to your dear old mother.”

“You’re not old,” Vergil says, getting to his feet and walking towards her. “You’re as young and radiant as you’ve always been. In fact, I’m sure you will outlive me.”

Eva smiles at him, opening her arms and beckoning him into an embrace, one he readily succumbs to. “Biology says you’ll outlive me by a couple of millennia. Give or take a century or so.”

Vergil shakes his head, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m far more human than any other demon, unfortunately. But, enough with the bleak commentary.”

“You started it,” Eva says while running a hand down the lapel of Vergil’s coat. “I honestly wasn’t expecting you for another month. What brings you home so soon?”

“I was bored.”

Eva laughs. “Of course you were. So you came right home to tend to your plants.”

“Is that really so hard to believe?”

“No. You always have been a homebody.”

“I can’t argue with that.” 

Vergil takes Eva’s hand and leads her to the newest expansion of the family grounds, a knee-length hedge maze the caretakers had begun growing on his twentieth birthday as per his mother’s request. It’s as lush and verdant as he expected it to be, given they only hire the best of hands. The type that don't ask questions.

“How have you been, darling?” The deep blue of her dress catches the sunlight, making small adornments shine and sparkle along her chest and shoulders. Her hair is done up in a tight bun, and Vergil decides he’s never seen more beautiful a woman in all his travels.

“Busy,” Vergil says. “You’ve no doubt already heard the rumors. I’m afraid Parliament and every other damn political institution haven’t taken too kindly to me.”

“To be expected. You’re as dangerous as you are handsome.”

“Hardly.”

“Dangerous or handsome?”

Vergil smiles, squeezing her hand. “Sparda loves to stir the pot and the humans are getting restless. I can’t defend his stance if he refuses to meet me halfway. He can’t expect peace and comradery if his plan to persuade those who oppose the union is war.”

“You’re just as stubborn as him.”

“My stubbornness isn’t at the verge of inciting genocide.” Vergil allows Eva to lead him down the path of her choosing, away from the fountain at the center at the garden. “I’m also not as stubborn as these bloody humans. Even while posing nothing but how they’d benefit from the treaty, they act as if I have spat on their dinner.”

“You were dismissed before the end of your tour, I see,” Eva says. They come across a bench on the east side of the maze, nestled between two adolescent pine trees. She takes a seat, and Vergil follows suit. “We humans have a history of rejecting other humans simply because they are different. It was very bold of you to assume they would welcome a half demon, of all creatures, with open minds.”

“I’m only trying to ensure their survival.”

Eva looks up at the sky, squinting when the sun gets in her eyes. “Look at you. Worried about humankind.”

Vergil scoffs, slouching forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Hardly. I’m simply fulfilling the role I was assigned by an egomaniacal father.”

“I wouldn’t consider Sparda to be egomaniacal. Obsessive, sure, may often lose sight of things if he gets too wrapped up in his plans.”

“What’s the point of making me an ambassador for a race he considers below the mud under his shoes? Why reason with the cattle? Or does he simply want to make my life as difficult as inhumanely possible?”

“Because _I’m_ human,” Eva says. “Your father is trying his hardest to create a world for us. His family.”

“I see no point when he refuses to even spend time with said family.”

“He’s a very busy man.”

“Clearly.” Vergil shakes his head. “Who do I swear allegiance to if war is declared?”

Eva places a hand on his back, rubbing light circles in a gesture like one she would do when he was a child. “I honestly hope your father sees reason. If he fails in doing so, then you must choose yourself.”

“He can’t expect me to fight his war then return with my tail tucked between my legs. If what he truly wants is unification with me at the helm, I’ll have to remain a neutral party.”

“Neutrality isn’t in your nature.”

“It’s almost as if he’s specifically set me on this path to test me.”

It’s infuriating, the constant changing waters Vergil must navigate through to see his job done. His liaison is already tumultuous enough to further compromise it by playing the role of a double agent, further fracturing his public image. Sparda cannot be that ignorant of human practices, wherever he may be tucked away in the grimy halls of his infernal palace. While character and appearance mean nothing in the Underworld, it is the end-all of human politics.

He knows neutrality would be his best bet – his only bet, if he wishes to continue onward with his endeavor, but the slumbering power just beneath the surface of his skin craves the indiscriminate bloodshed he’s never been allowed to partake in. A fair condition given he isn’t a mindless savage sniffing about blindly like some uncouth bloodhound. He doesn’t actively hunger for the violence and soulless abandon demons are known for, but sometimes, when the walls are down and he is entirely honest with himself, he longs to succumb to blissful instinct.

“Do you want my opinion?” Eva says, also leaning forward and towards Vergil as to whisper him a secret.

“Always.”

“Marry a human.”

The words blindside Vergil, leaving him blinking in the sunlight. “Come again?”

“Not only will you seem more… palatable,” she pauses, reconsiders her wording, “approachable, by demonstrating that you are not above settling down with a human, but it would also stick a thorn on your father’s side. Maybe all he needs is a reminder that humanity is far closer to home than he remembers it to be.”

Vergil doesn’t immediately catch himself shaking his head in disapproval, only doing so when Evan raises her eyebrows with amusement. “I refuse to marry some human woman.”

“Never said it had to be a woman.”

Vergil opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, feeling warmth spread along his neck and face. “That’s the worst possible idea you could have come up with, Mother.”

Eva laughs. “Is it, though? When was the last time you shared in someone’s warmth?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer, because the last time he ever felt any form of non-familial heat was with his own brother as they stole a kiss in the shadows of their home. It’s a dirty little secret from nearly six years ago he carries close to his heart; one his mother can never learn.

And maybe she’s right.

Vergil holds the memory of that night like a sacred light. It burns and thrashes in his chest like a wild animal desperate to free itself from the corner it has been forced into. The way Dante’s mouth had felt against his, firm and cocky and no doubt sloppy, filled what remained of his teenage years with plenty of sensual fodder.

He cannot allow for these feelings to manifest if he’s to live out his life as a human diplomat. As is, he’s constantly in the public eye, the very air he breathes scrutinized and criticized. Were anyone to ever catch wind of his abhorrent desires it would lead to a life-ending scandal. Not that it matters entirely considering Vergil never signed up to become an ambassador for the Underworld.

Perhaps it is time for him to move on. Perhaps all he needs is to take a partner that will not vanish for decades at a time, one who keeps their promises and doesn’t leave him high and dry. He wouldn’t be the first to marry out of convenience or for political advantage, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“I’ll consider it,” he concedes, much to Eva’s surprise. “Though, I wouldn’t be expecting any grandchildren if I were you.”

* * *

The well water smells like shit, but it’s the best Dante can get his hands on until he can hunt down a cleaner vein closer to the surface. Every goddamn source gets tainted by pissy demons trying to one-up the current authority, and every time Dante gets the pleasure of cutting them down like the well-trained lapdog he is. The title of Daddy’s Favorite comes with a steep price.

Rather than complain, Dante washes the blood and gore off his face and hands, calling it a day and heading back home. Another story to tell some brainwashed dimwit for the official archives. The introduction of bureaucracy to the Underworld wouldn’t sit too well if demons knew Sparda had implemented the system, but as it stands, no one and nothing has its head in the right place to opinionate on the matter. Demons do as they please, when they please. The only authority they recognize is that of the King’s, and even then, the struggle to dethrone him is a constant one.

Really, all Dante wants is a nice nap on a warm bed after stuffing his face with something greasy. Instead, all he gets is a make-shift castle, a fortress, tucked inside a mountain that is constantly cold and smells of rot. Flowers from the human world seldom last more than a day.

Walking through the winding halls of his home, Dante vaguely acknowledges the more humanoid and intelligent of demons that prowl alongside him, all of them members of his father’s court. Most of which he’s fucked once or twice out of a lack of anything better to do given Sparda has utterly murdered any love he’s ever harbored towards books. And books are about the only thing he’s allowed to keep to himself, along with his weapons.

“What if,” Dante announces to the throne room, “we get _two_ nice three-headed doggies to protect the grounds. Because I’m real sick of seeing to it day in and day out. I thought I was a goddamn prince, not a fucking guard.”

“A ruler must be disciplined,” Sparda says, without looking up from the parchment he’s currently writing on. “I’m aware it’s tedious, but the more they see that you cannot be defeated, the more they will respect you once it is time.”

“There’s no such thing as respect in this fucking place.”

“Rome was not built in a day, son.”

“Neither did it last forever.”

“We don’t need forever. Just long enough to achieve our goals.”

“Your goals, maybe. I’m only along for the ride.”

Sparda looks up, glaring at Dante over the top of his glasses. “There isn’t much time to outgrow your childish antics. You’re a grown man.”

“I’m just being honest. You said so yourself: a kingdom must be built on honesty. Only when it’s convenient, though.”

“Dante,” Sparda says with a hint of warning.

“Relax, old man. I’m just pulling your leg.” Dante crosses the spacious room and pulls out the chair beside Sparda, unceremoniously plopping down into it and heavily dropping his boots onto the long table in front of them. “I’ve got the clusters in line, our diplomats as satisfied as they can possibly be given they’re demons, and – get this – I saw an honest to fuck family just grazing by the tundra. Sure, the kid was trying to literally bite its mother’s head off but… at least, I think it was its mother.” He knocks his fist against the table in declared victory. “The beginnings of a society, just like you wanted.”

“You have done admirably,” Sparda says, nodding his head at him with a hint of his smile on his weathered face; the tell-tale signs of pride that makes Dante stand tall and triumphant. “If only you would produce an heir.” This he says with a playful grin that sits sourly in Dante’s stomach. “Granted, he wouldn’t know the prowess of a demon of pure blood, but—”

“I’m not a pureblood,” Dante says.

“No, you are not.”

“Bold of you to assume it’d be a male, too.”

Sparda removes his glasses and sets them on the book, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “My apologies if I offended your sensibilities. For someone who gives me constant grief for my own beliefs, you’re not so different.”

“I don’t want to have a kid.” He sounds petulant to his own ears, but it’s a conversation he’s tired of having. “You’ll rule for another two-thousand years, I’ll rule for a millennium or so, I feel like an heir is unnecessary.”

“All bases covered.”

“I’ve fucked my way through half the Underworld,” Dante says, and his bluntness makes Sparda scowl. “If no bastards have popped up yet, what makes you think that’s going to change in the near future?” Putting his feet down and standing up from the chair, Dante makes sure to shove it back in with enough force to rattle the table. “But, whatever. Guess I’ll keep on trying because you know me, always gotta keep daddy happy.”

“I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but we are in no position to put our feelings first.”

“Easy for you to say. You married Mother because you loved her. I don’t think it’s fair that you get to choose while I have to suck it up and do it for the throne.”

“I never said any of this would be fair, Dante. That you did not realize this when you left Red Grave truly escapes me.”

“When I left Red Grave…” Dante nods his head, hands on his hips to keep them from reaching for his sword. He’s never dreamed of raising a blade against his father, but it’s times like these that he questions his choices.

Turning on his heels, Dante leaves the room without further word.

That Sparda would even put it so blandly, as if it had been a choice Dante had made, to leave his mother and brother for a kingdom – an entire _dimension_ – he has no desire to protect or rule over.

It sits like a burden on his chest, the knowledge that these aren’t his father’s words. He can almost hear Mundus whispering the dos and don’ts overlapping the soothing cadence of Sparda’s voice. The Benevolent King, no more a pawn than the rest of them. It’s as sickening as it is cruel, and Dante’s lack of an answer after so many years still haunts him.

Defeating Mundus would mean going through Sparda first.

Growling below his breath, Dante takes a corner and bumps into one of his father’s many gatekeepers.

“Another fight with daddy dearest? My. This place may be on its last legs, after all. Malphas was right.”

“Shut up, Nevan.” Dante pushes past her, intent on getting to his room before he does something he will eventually regret.

Nevan, however, follows him. “How eloquent. Spoken like a true prince, my liege.”

Swatting away the cloud of bats that get in his face, Dante scoffs. “Get fucked.”

“Oh, I would love to. You do have such a glorious, magnificent, utterly delectable cock. How would you prefer me?” Before Dante can snap at her again, she reappears in front of him, a long red nail pressing against his lips to silence everything. “I can disregard the smell of your mate if you lick how I like.”

Dante grabs her wrist, momentarily considering the offer as she presses up against him, her exposed breasts contrasting the black of his shirt. “My mate?”

“Don’t play coy, Dante.”

Squeezing the wrist until she grunts, he levels her with a steady glare. “I haven’t been able to mate.”

“You haven’t bred,” she corrects, lifting her bruised wrist with his hand still attached to lick a strip along the coat sleeve. “But you’re bonded to another. The scent is faint, old, but it lingers in your sweat, in your seed.” She grins at him, clearly drawing pleasure from his confusion. “Poor half-breed has no idea how his own ability to procreate works.”

He doesn’t, but the idea that he’s bonded without knowledge leaves an ugly monster to thrash around in his gut.

“Something to ease your mind,” Nevan says as she leans against the stone wall, grabbing her skirts and lifting them to expose herself. “You cannot breed until your mate allows you to.”

Dante steps closer to her, glancing only briefly as he digests the information. If she’s able to sense it, then who else can and why has no one brought it up? Why hasn’t Sparda mentioned it?

Reaching for his zip, Dante makes a thoughtful sound. “If that’s the case, guess there’s really no need to hold back.” With no better way to vent, and desperately needing to realign his own thoughts, Dante pulls himself free. “Turn around.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War, politics, and horny boys on the battlefield. Just a usual day at the Sparda household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is about 80% done and I can guarantee you it'll be 90% horniness. ~

Peace does not reign.

It had been unfathomable to picture a war that transcended humankind as a species, one that broke its knees and forced it into the dirt. The level of destruction, the sheer annihilation, unprecedented. Some part of Vergil had expected a war fought in dark alleys, in the privacy of the victims' homes, in cathedrals, through media, and major corporations that continue to destroy their own kind.

Instead, what he gets, is a war like history intended it to be.

Cities flattened; lands scorched. The stench of blood is thick in the air, an aroma almost sweet to his senses. With no other choice, Vergil traded in the principals of law for the Yamato, standing his ground against his own father’s armies to defend a race that saw him as nothing but scum.

_It is necessary,_ the only letter he has ever received from Sparda read, his neat handwriting perverting the gruesome objectives of his unholy war. _Crush the opposition, instill fear in those who do not believe in the cause._

Vergil could care less about the humans and their convoluted politics that both rejected and welcomed the war, but his presence in the battlefield stands as nothing more but a direct defiance to his father. _Do not taint your image for there is use of it yet. Stay home. Watch over your mother._

Eva told him to go. She held him long and tight, whispering words of affection and strength before kissing his temple and wishing him victory. A victory that would not come. Humankind never stood a chance against the forces of the Underworld, not in a war sanctioned by Sparda; not in a war lead by his brother.

Dante stands on the front lines, adorned in red against his black armor. He doesn’t fight as a human, but as a demon. It is a form Vergil has never seen before, never thought possible for hybrids like them, and he wonders if he too has a devil dormant deep inside of him. He wonders if this war will cause it to emerge.

Until then, Dante and Vergil meet again and again, in fields far and close to home. Each encounter more violent than the last, each clash of their swords met with silence on both their ends.

The tides do not change. Ruin abounds across the human world as the military and their weapons are useless to stop the onslaught. As their numbers dwindle, Vergil prevails.

During the years of constant battle, beaten and worn and longing for respite, Vergil refrains from analyzing his father’s true intentions. He deliberately ignores the murmurs in the back of his mind, the words Dante had hastily said that night ten years ago, when they had kissed under the cover of darkness.

There is nothing to hide them now.

They do not kiss. Their only form of touch comes in the fashion of crossed swords, of wounds that would be lethal to any human.

Vergil draws sick satisfaction from the adrenaline as he pushes himself to limits he hadn’t been aware of. Each fight hones his skills as a swordsman, making him faster, sharper, more graceful as his brother comes down on him with brute strength and a bloodlust Vergil can see gleaming on his face.

It’s arousing.

He can feel the blood as it pools in his groin, engorging him beneath the fabric of his pants. Each time they cross hairs, Dante moving at lightning speed, Vergil can smell the delectable banquet he so yearns to devour.

Slash, block, parry, sidestep – repeat.

The game goes on and on, an equal give and take that pushes harder, stronger, each unwilling to bow underneath the other’s sword.

But Dante plays dirty. He’ll ease on his offense to dance around Vergil, snarling hotly against his ear before jumping away, striking back with full force that is always deterred. Vergil is good at denying himself, however, at suppressing his wants until his goals are achieved. This is no different.

Despite the alluring call from within, that siren song that stokes the embers of lust deep inside of him, Vergil refrains. He deposits his disappointments, his anger, his inferiority – but also his love, his aspirations, his hunger – everything that makes him achingly human into the graceful arch of his sword.

The hours flow like water when they engage, the battlefield fading away until it’s only them in the most sublime state of being. Their coats in tatters, boots caked in mud and gore, faces littered with teasing cuts, and split lips that ooze a delicacy both are ravenous for.

Vergil momentarily seizes the upper hand, catching Dante at the end of the Yamato and driving it through him. His body resists the impalement, skin, meat, and organs impeding a quick stab, but Vergil pushes on. He relishes the grunt, the scrambling of hands over the hilt of the Yamato as Dante tries to free himself, but blood keeps his fingers slipping. Vergil twists his blade and pushes it further, knees shaking and body trembling with the ecstasy that grips him at the sight of Dante so beautifully pierced, penetrated by this physical extension of himself.

Dante who stares at him, mouth open and panting, eyes burning with voracious want as he steps closer to Vergil, impaling himself deeper, more blood gushing freely from the wound.

Vergil starts at the searing pain in his abdomen, a hot intrusion that jerks him away from any and all thought. He looks down to see Dante’s own sword returning the favor, the skull mockingly laughing at him as it presses flush against the ruined fabric of his leather vest. Light flashes and his sight swims, throes to what Vergil assumes are the beginning of death take hold only to flee as quickly as they came, leaving him standing against his brother, swords embedded in each other, and his cock painfully hard.

Dante twists the Rebellion and jerks it free, making Vergil stumble. The emptiness he feels is devastating, the ache of a mortal wound already stitching itself back together undoing those few seconds of bliss he readily succumbed to fading into nothingness.

A moment transpires in which both remain still, frozen within a space all their own despite the sounds of bloodshed and ear-piercing howls all around them.

Vergil lifts the Yamato once again, holding her in a tight and unyielding stance.

Dante laughs, and readies his sword.

* * *

The war wages for another two years. If there is one thing Vergil has learned throughout his time serving the wretched cause, is that human beings are tough. He can see why his father once fought so fiercely to defend them, watching over them with the same affection a master would care for their pet. But Sparda’s love, it seems, cannot be defined by terms and concepts humans can comprehend. To the untrained eye he is callous, his ambitions set before those he cares for – but his ambitions exist _because_ he loves with inhuman strength. Sparda loves much like a child, unconditional and ruthless, unsure of how to demonstrate that emotion that is so foreign, so new – so taboo for a demon general who once only knew carnage.

Sparda waged his war to protect humans, and he did so knowing that many would die. And many did die. And he will carry that on his conscience until the day he perishes.

Now, however, Sparda stands stoic and proud, his armor exchanged for frumpy clothing that’s at least a century old. Vergil stands across from him, pen in hand, as the notary reads from the document they are both about to sign. Opposite a king of a dimension apart from the human world, no world leader has the authority to sign the treaty. That’s not to say the room they currently stand in isn’t filled with world leaders, all waiting with bated breath for this apocalyptic war to well and truly end. It falls to Vergil, the only half-human half-demon among them. They have chosen to disregard his familial connections to the Demon King, believing that his human half is far stronger than the demonic instinct lying within, because that’s simply how humans think.

As prince, ambassador, soldier, demon, human, and son – Vergil signs along the dotted line and the war ends in the sprawling hall of some unnamed government building a country away from his homeland.

Hands are shaken, pleasantries are exchanged, and everyone acts as if they hadn't tried to kill each other one way or another.

They spill out into the hallway and Vergil quickens his pace, looking down at his watch and hoping he will make it to the landing pad in time for his flight home. He ignores the looks that befall him, a mixture of awe and admiration that is ill advised for even the deadliest of demons. He’s given them what they wanted, brought Sparda’s plan to fruition. There will be peace now, a tumultuous union he believes won't last, but he will let them dream.

“Vergil.”

Vergil stops at the sound of his father calling him, an unpleasant twist in his gut keeping him from advancing any further. He turns and bows his head. “Your Excellency.”

Sparda has the audacity to laugh, looking around them with a shrug. “We’re alone. There’s no need for formalities.”

“Father,” he says, then, and the word tastes foreign. He’s only ever used it disdainfully lately. “Congratulations on your victory. I’m certain your underlings won’t be happy you forfeit the war.”

Sparda’s mouth forms a thin line, paler than the rest of his face. “This is on a need-to-know basis, I’m afraid. At least for the time being.”

“Right. Just another level on your elaborate game.”

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s doing well, despite not having seen her in nearly four years. She is resilient, as you know, can wield any sword better than we can, I’m certain. Single mothers have a propensity to outdo the husbands that abandon them,” Vergil says, clenching his jaw once he’s finished. It’s as close as he’s ever gotten to ranting.

“I won’t deny I deserved that.” Sparda nods his head, idly fixing the cuff of his jacket. “I won’t keep you. I simply wanted to congratulate you on a job well done. You have exceeded all our expectations. Dante has told me in great detail how fiercely you fought in the field. Can’t quite tell if he’s jealous or enchanted.” He makes an amused sound that’s not quite a laugh, but his icy eyes fix on Vergil with a focus that is nothing short of frightening.

Vergil’s feels a chill slide down his spine. The way his father says it leaves no room for misinterpretation, and Vergil suddenly feels sick for the first time since he was a child. “He’s just upset we’re on equal footing despite our vastly different upbringings. A diplomat besting the Underworld’s grandest general with merely a sword must leave behind a bad taste.”

“Maybe a rematch is in order?” Sparda says so jokingly, but the tight lines along his face say otherwise. He reaches over, patting Vergil’s shoulder amicably before quickly pulling away. “You did well, son.”

The knot in Vergil’s throat is uncomfortable. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a flight I can’t afford to miss.”

“Of course, my apologies for distracting you from your busy schedule.”

He stares at his father for only a moment, a sharp retort on his tongue, but he refrains. Petulance will get him nowhere. “Let’s meet again,” he says instead, carefully gauging Sparda’s reaction. “I will admit that your intentions still escape me, and a clearer understanding of them might help us going forward.”

“What else is there to understand?”

“You risked a war in which your future king is now seen as the villain.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“I don’t think you understand how human politics work,” Vergil says, carefully treading dangerous territory. “Will you wage yet another war and destroy whatever is left of your precious world simply because they refuse to show you their necks? And what of your kingdom? It isn’t too out of the realm of the imagination for an uprising to unseat you and undo all of your hard work were they ever to learn the truth.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, the change in the air palpable like an oncoming storm.

“Watch your tone, boy.”

“No. I suggest you watch your strategy, your Excellency.”

The deep breath Sparda takes is visible, and Vergil knows he’s won. “Your brother doesn’t ask questions.” The implication is obvious. _That’s why I chose him,_ it says.

Vergil bows his head in a show of respect. “I trust he will be a great successor to Mundus, in that case.” Adjusting the lapels of his suit jacket, Vergil turns on his heels and continues on his way. “A word of advice, however: don’t underestimate us, Father.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masquerades, forbidden fruits, and nefarious endeavors under the cover of night. Dante and Vergil finally get their fill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's do a little math here. Chapter 1 through 5 of this fic equal a total of 15k words. Chapter 6, all on its own, is 9.8k. 9.8k of porn, too, so I guess that excuses this disproportionate disaster. I have no excuse other than this whole chapter is the reason why I even wrote this fic. So, uh, enjoy.

“Is this truly necessary?” Vergil says, sitting still before the mirror as Eva fusses with the cape at his back. It attaches seamlessly to his left shoulder, but the right side – meant to rest just above his midriff – refuses to fix to his waistcoat. The asymmetrical cut was picked by his mother and he can see the regret on her face in the mirror.

“One more comment from you and you’ll be attending in the nude,” she says snarkily, smacking his shoulder. “That might expedite the process of finding you someone. Being you, I’d consider the option.”

Vergil rolls his eyes. “Your insistence to marry me off is vaguely alarming. I feel like I’m playing a character in a Jane Austen novel.”

“Oh, nonsense. You agreed to this yourself.”

“I agreed to broaden my horizons in regards to finding a suitable spouse. Not blind dating.” Vergil glances at the elaborate mask on the table next to him.

“It’ll be fun,” Eva says, making a triumphant sound when she finally gets the cape to sit in place. “Besides, you know most of the people who are attending. I’m not as sadistic as you think me to be.”

“Hard fact to prove.”

“I suppose you must have inherited it from someone. Stand up.”

Vergil does as he’s told. He watches the cape cascade to the floor, the golden embroidery glistening in the bright light of Eva’s bedroom matches the gold on his waistcoat, accentuating the gems on his mask. The blue fabric is a shade lighter than he wanted, but Eva insisted it did wonders for his eyes.

“Well?” she says, “What do you think?”

He turns in the mirror, taking himself in from all angles. His trousers are tight in places he knows are intentional, but he has no argument against it. They’re comfortable to dance in, which is something he will most likely be doing a lot of throughout the evening.

“I like it.”

Eva beams at him. “You look devilishly handsome.” She adjusts his cravat, making certain he’s as impeccable as possible. “Enjoy yourself, Vergil. Consider this the fruit of your labor. You’ve worked so hard and here we are, rejoicing in peace, in the unity of our worlds.”

He reaches over to lightly drag his thumb down Eva’s cheek in a loving gesture.

Despite her good intentions, Vergil knows the masquerade is yet another political stint meant to further root him into the seat of power he’s clawed himself into. By the time the night is over, he will have chosen a demure human to court and marry in order to make him seem more human in the eyes of the diplomats all around him. He’s won them their war, fought on their side, but violence is not enough to sway them.

Matters could be worse, however. It’s not like it’s the twentieth century, despite the cliché he’s currently embarking on. He has forfeited his personal life long ago, when he took on the role of ambassador for the Underworld as his father demanded. Things such as love and freedom are merely concepts he can theoretically hope for yet never attain.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Eva says quietly.

“I was thinking about how lucky I am to have you as a mother.” He takes her hand and gives it a kiss. “You look beautiful.”

Eva sighs, and it’s a tell-tale sign that she doesn’t believe him. She knows better than to press.

“You’re only young once. Just for tonight, allow yourself to embrace decadence.”

* * *

The usually spacious and empty manor that once echoed his footsteps is now bustling with people, drowning in music that is discordantly modern despite the aesthetics around him. The never-used great hall is lit by candlelight, and Vergil has never seen so many candles throughout the thirty-odd-years of his life.

Muted gold and ivory drape across the hall, accentuating all the stunning outfits and masks that crowd around him. The smell of food is eclipsed by the potent stench of perfumes that is near nauseating, and as quickly as he entered, he searches for the first empty veranda he can find.

He doesn’t find one. He considers escaping to a hallway, away from the sudden onslaught of onlookers that know it’s him despite his elaborate mask. But an even stronger stench, a putrid one that may as well be nonexistent to humans, lingers in the crowd. There are demons here, not the lesser kind, but the type that would belong to his father’s court.

In the end he decides to linger by the pillars, hands in his pockets and observing the living mass as it moves and breathes and laughs drunkenly into the night. In all of his years of reading and analyzing humankind through the lens of a book, it is refreshing to see it in a whole different atmosphere, one set in the aftermath of a war meant to annihilate them. There is no somberness, no mourning, just a gleeful debauchery that isn’t much different from the abandon of demons.

For all of their holier-than-thou attitude, they are much the same.

Vergil isn’t aware of when it makes itself noticed, but he feels it when the undeniably powerful sense slides down his back like a longing caress.

From behind the pillar emerges a demon whose essence is potent enough to act like a drug. It catches Vergil off guard, especially when said demon moves to stand behind him, taking his hand and pressing warm lips to the back of it. A hand that is sniffed at, turned around so that sharp teeth can graze the thin flesh of his wrist as he’s marked and claimed for all to see.

“Had I known you were looking for someone to mess around with, I would have thrown my name in the pool,” Dante says against his wrist, pressing another kiss to it. “You look good enough to eat, Big Brother.”

Vergil suppresses a shiver at the featherlight contact, his body thrumming with the attention it’s receiving. “I’m surprised you came.”

“Not yet,” Dante says, teasingly, as he lets go of Vergil’s hand. “We need to talk.”

Fixing his sleeve and only mildly disappointed at the loss of contact, Vergil nods his head. “Shall we head somewhere private?” He sees Dante make a gesture to someone in the crowd before agreeing.

Vergil leads them down the nearest hallway that leads to the back gardens, but Dante stops him midway there. “This way,” he says, taking them in the opposite direction, towards the area of the manor hardly anyone ever wanders into per Sparda’s request.

Vergil doesn’t question it, understanding that whatever is about to be said is of utmost importance and should be discussed where no wandering ears might listen. He’s aware of the small group of demons that disperse as they go, standing idly by at different points to make certain they aren’t followed. Vergil is slightly put off by it, but he allows Dante his comforts.

They descend staircases and cross crumbling brick corridors until they reach a barricaded steel door. Vergil steps in before Dante can touch it, lifting the wards with mumbled arcane words and a brisk hand movement. “I reinforced it before I left,” he says, and Dante nods in understanding. Anything to make certain their mother remains safe.

They push through the door and into the massive chamber beyond, where the sound of rushing water is momentarily deafening before it stops altogether. The full moon shining through the absent roof makes it light enough to see, and a light breeze rustles the ivy that climbs the ancient stone walls. Overgrown trees, though thin and nearly bare, speak of how long the branching chamber has gone without care.

Gargoyles look down at them with blankness etched into their stone faces, maws gaping and awaiting the ruby red liquid that is the key to their secret.

At the center: Sparda. His effigy stands ever magnificent at the center of the chamber, the Rebellion clasped within his hands as his horned head looks down upon the two who have trespassed.

Dante stands beside Vergil, and there is a seriousness to him he greatly dislikes. If he were to look hard enough, he’d find the joker who always took his things and hid them, the boy who would giggle uncontrollably whenever Vergil gave him a withering look. On the surface, however, all Vergil can see is a battle-hardened warrior.

An absolutely stunning one, if he’s to be candid with himself. His outfit suits him, with its red and gold and intricate scales that adorn his sleeves. The shirt is unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tantalizing sliver of flesh Vergil looks away from, or else lose his train of thought. Dante’s hair is shorter than it was when they last met, but still shaggy, almost over his eyes, as if he’s tried to tame it but gave up halfway.

“I haven’t been here since I was a kid,” Dante says, walking close to the statue while avoiding the carved-out pools around him. “I remember it being a lot more imposing.”

“It has been a long time,” Vergil agrees, staying by the door. He watches Dante stop at the foot of the statue, hands on his hips. “The reason for its existence is imposing enough. I’m grateful there’s been no need for it.”

“You can drop the stuffiness. It’s me you’re talking to, not the prime minister.”

“Sue me for believing I have a more intimate relationship with said prime minister than my own brother.”

“None of my business who you’ve banged.”

Vergil’s fingers twitch. “Whatever it is you were going to tell me, tell me. I can feel your entourage getting antsy on the other side of the door.”

“They know better than to interrupt.” Dante scratches his chin, and Vergil can hear the faint sound of nails against stubble. “Sparda needs to be removed from the equation.”

“Ah.” Vergil isn’t at all surprised. “Is it because he’s lost his goddamn mind?”

Dante shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. I think he’s playing into a role and he’s dug himself into a hole he can’t get out of.”

“He’s _not_ conspiring with Mundus.” It isn’t framed like a question, but there’s a hint of thoughtfulness behind his tone. “But he’s danced himself into a trap.”

“More or less. Malphas keeps saying she can sense him even when she knows he isn’t around. Which would make sense given she and him were close, but I can’t pinpoint where the presence is coming from.”

“You think it’s attached itself to Father.”

“Maybe. For all the time I’ve spent in the Underworld, you think I’d have a better handle on how any of this shit works.”

With a sigh, Vergil removes his mask and sets it on the remains of a pillar. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t get humans any better. We’re cursed to wander the in-between, forever ignorant of complete truths.”

“Can’t tell if you’re reciting poetry or…”

Suppressing the need to roll his eyes, Vergil closes the distance between them. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, unable to resist the delectable scent rolling off Dante in heated waves. “As much of a turn-on as this mature and level-headed prince is,” Vergil says, pressing a kiss to the bridge of Dante’s nose like he used to do when they were children, knocking his mask askew, “I miss my miscreant little brother.”

Dante blinks at him before removing his scaled mask, and his face is something Vergil can only describe as soft. There’s a playful tilt to the corner of his mouth, a gleam in his eyes that has Vergil leaning into him, face against his neck, as Dante’s arms wrap around him.

“Don’t you sometimes forget we’re actually related?” Dante murmurs, and the shame that hides within his tone urges Vergil to hold him tighter. “I spend so much time doing stuff – stuff I can’t even put a name to half the time, that I lose sight of a lot of things. Even myself, feels like.”

“No. I could never forget,” Vergil says, but he doesn’t say so angrily. He will always be Dante’s counterweight, after all. “One of us has to remember in case the other loses his way.”

“Always the responsible one.”

“Only fair given the weight on your shoulders.” Vergil is surprised by the tenderness in his own words, and he dials it back by playfully nipping at Dante’s neck. “But you’re strong, Little Brother. So very strong, and brave, and handsome—”

“If what you want is in my pants, then say so, douchebag.”

Vergil laughs. “I figured a little praise would go a long way.”

“You only praise me when you’re horny.”

“Hm. I do have you in my arms. And dare I say that you smell unlike anything that’s ever graced my senses. Like a peculiar spice – sharp, warm, earthy.” Vergil’s mouth waters as the scent envelops him, slipping down like a physical caress to settle in his groin like a teasing wisp of air.

Big, meaty hands grab his ass and squeeze, and Vergil’s instinctive reaction is to hiss in warning. The sound is so inhuman he nearly stumbles back were it not for Dante’s hold, but his arms quickly withdraw once Vergil is stable enough.

“I…” Vergil places a hand over his own chest, confused.

It’s Dante’s turn to laugh, a loud and boisterous sound that stirs heat deep in Vergil’s gut. It’s as lovely as it is grating. “I guess that makes sense. Don’t worry, Verge. Little brother’s here to help you through demon puberty.”

Affronted, Vergil is grateful for the darkness around them and how it may well be obscuring the rising color on his cheeks. “That’s never happened before.”

“Tell me. How many demons have you gotten down and dirty with?” Dante holds his arms out in a grand gesture and takes a knee. “Just listen to it.” He bows low, forehead nearly touching the stone ground, and remains perfectly still.

It takes a moment for Vergil to bury the embarrassment and the feelings of inadequacy at not knowing the nuances of what appears to be a demon ritual. He’s spent his life studying humans, dabbling briefly in his own roots for their sake, but never once did he consider demons having any form of etiquette. Is it etiquette, however, if it’s instinctual?

He listens. He walks circles around Dante’s prone form, wracking his brain for any information on what is expected of him. “Can’t you just tell me what I need to do?” Despite the absence of a verbal response, Vergil can feel the amusement bouncing off him.

The feeling that Dante is toying with him is momentarily drowned out by the need to kiss the bit of neck exposed between his hair and collar. He pauses his prowling to take slow, measured steps towards his brother as if drawn by the magnet that is that minimal piece of skin, kneeling beside him and looming to press his nose to it. Vergil fills his lungs with the scent, lets it sway him with the headiness of something not of this world.

He mouths at it, rubs his face against the heat that radiates from it. One of his hands sinks into Dante’s hair, blunt nails dragging against his scalp before he draws away to rest of his knees. Vergil takes a moment, unsteady as he is, to let his body accommodate the new sensations that so sensually make their home on his skin.

Dante doesn’t move until Vergil is back on his feet, and only then does he sit back on his haunches and looks up at him with a carefully blank expression. He’s waiting for something, Vergil decides, and a wicked voice tells him to deny his brother any wish. 

That’s exactly what he does as he stands in front of Dante, staring down at him.

Shuffling his weight on his knees, Dante gestures for Vergil to kneel before him.

“No.”

Dante twitches. He gestures again, using his entire upper body to do so in frustration, but keeps his eyes trained on Vergil’s face.

Vergil can _feel_ Dante’s desperation, the hunger stirred by being denied what is so delectably offered before him. He wonders what keeps his brother from simply taking now that, as he understands it, he’s given consent to the ritual both are partaking in. Maybe Dante is a masochist, or maybe he’s uncertain Vergil fully understands what he’s entering. Whatever it may be, that taut line of tension resonates with the stiffness in his pants – and he’s absolutely certain Dante can see it.

The snap comes so blindingly quick Vergil only becomes aware of it as his world tilts, his body colliding with the damp stone underneath him. He’s flipped onto his front, Dante straddling his legs as Vergil’s shoved harder against the gritty surface, a hand on the back of his head. A hot huff of air tickles the back of his neck just as something hard and unforgiving presses against the curve of his ass, and he has no intention of fighting.

The position isn’t comfortable, but to have Dante nuzzling the back of his neck makes it worth it. It’s at that very moment that Vergil understands what is being said, what is being exchanged, and he can’t help but push back against the hips that insistently rub against him. Dante growls in warning and Vergil answers with a snarl, a deep sound that breaks into a surprised gasp and then a moan when jagged teeth rip through the soft flesh of his nape.

The sudden invasion inundates Vergil’s senses, leaves him unsteady and delirious as something dark thrashes inside of him – demanding more, more, _more_. Dante continues to hump him, making inhuman noises against his ear until Vergil finally goes still beneath him. He’s maneuvered onto his back, and the image of his little brother with his grinning face covered in blood makes Vergil’s cock throb.

Dante looms over him, swiping his hair back with a self-satisfied smirk. “Did you like that?” Squeezing the frankly huge bulge in his pants, he uses his spare hand to smack Vergil’s hip. “‘Cause there’s a lot more where that came from, baby.”

Vergil stares up at the starry sky, at Sparda’s face as it contorts with disgust at what it’s just witnessed. “If I wish to rescind my consent—”

“Just say so,” Dante says without missing a beat. “That’s the beauty of being half human.”

“Hm.” Vergil has no real desire to move, but he can’t stare up at Sparda any longer. With a huff, he half pushes Dante off him and gets up, brushing dirt off his now ruined outfit. “That’s convenient to know.” He watches Dante crawl over to him, a vision of mischief and raw sex appeal as he stops at Vergil’s feet, his hands sensually sliding up the back of Vergil’s legs and massaging as they go. “We should go elsewhere.”

“Yeah,” Dante agrees, but his hands are single-mindedly undoing the button and zip of Vergil’s pants. He pauses only to sniff at his groin – much to Vergil’s embarrassment – and growls softly with pleasure. “That was just the first time.”

Before he can ask, Dante is tugging down the underwear’s band, grinning when his prize springs free. Vergil’s cock is hard, slick with premature ejaculation from the bite that sticks to his silvery pubes. Dante’s jaw slackens once he licks his lips.

Part of Vergil wants to hide. This is his brother, his beautiful and delectably debauched brother, on his knees and eager to take him into his mouth. “Dante—”

“Ever gotten your dick sucked before?”

Vergil sighs. “Yes,” he says bluntly, enjoying the hint of surprise that slowly turns into something much darker. “It’s my favorite of acts,” Vergil continues, luring out the monster that momentarily flashes in Dante’s eyes.

“You wanna know which is mine?”

“Show me.”

Dante blinks up at him, his easy smile returning. “Careful what you wish for, Vergil. Little brother might deliver. I do owe you.” Vergil grabs the end of his shirt and pulls it up to grant Dante better range. He goes to unbutton his waist coat, but Dante stops him. “_I’m_ taking your clothes off tonight.”

Vergil’s breath hitches at the promise. He cards his fingers through Dante’s hair, enjoying the softness of it as his brother sucks the head of his cock into his mouth and then doesn’t stop, swallowing him down to the root. Vergil’s fingers clench and twist, earning him a groan that reverberates through him.

Dante’s throat is soft and wet, pliant and ready for whatever abuse it may come to it. The thought is so erotic Vergil nearly thrusts without warning just to see, but he refrains out of the goodness of his heart. Dante goes down on him with such talent he could weep – at how good it feels, how complete, how Dante is the one slurping and making other obscene noises that sound just like a prayer.

“More,” Vergil says, tugging on his hair hard enough to bruise. “More, Dante.”

Dante complies, bouncing his head as he chokes himself on Vergil’s cock with plenty of enthusiasm. Spit drips down his jaw.

The harsh sucking makes Vergil’s legs shake from the force and he can feel it, the draw of yet another orgasm curling hotly at the base of his spine. He can’t help but defiantly stare up at the statue of his father, the Rebellion poised to strike them both down, as he cums in deep in Dante’s throat with a quiet sigh.

Dante sucks him through it, eagerly consuming every last drop before pulling off, doubling down on his efforts to get Vergil’s cock nice and clean with his tongue alone. He hums cheerfully as he drags the slick and still hard cock across his cheek, along the seam of his mouth to playfully lap at the swollen head.

“Fuck,” Dante says, his voice hoarse from his efforts. “It’s like I can taste for the very first time.” He leans forward to press a kiss to Vergil’s exposed hip, stroking the cock still in hand until his brother asks him to stop. “You taste so fucking good, Vergil.”

Vergil pulls him up by the hair and leans against him once he stands, kissing his bottom lip with wicked intent. “It’s good to know your mouth is as versatile as you are.” An arm around Dante and his free hand fiddling with the buttons of his crimson shirt, Vergil wholeheartedly surrenders to his brother.

Eva did tell him to embrace decadence.

“Let’s take this to my bedroom,” Vergil murmurs, nipping Dante’s jaw.

“Hope you got lube.”

“And a bed.”

“Vanilla, but I’ll take it.”

“I’m not in the business of getting fucked into the ground.”

“Bullshit,” Dante says, growling as he slips his hands into the back of Vergil’s pants to grope him. “You’d let me fuck you anywhere as long as I do it right the fuck now. I can feel how much you want it, Vergil. How much you want to be stuffed full of my glorious cock.”

He doesn’t have the strength of will to deny it. “Bedroom, Dante.”

With a sigh and a laugh, Dante fixes their clothing and leads the way.

* * *

When the door closes, Vergil is pushed up against it as Dante begins to undress him with adept fingers. The same hands that deliver ruthless violence now dance along Vergil’s body with a reverence worthy of a god. They pull fabric away with a tenderness Vergil hadn’t thought his brother capable of possessing.

“I can smell others on you,” Dante says, leaving behind a trail of marks across Vergil’s stomach as he divests him of his boots. “Men and women… all humans.”

“And you carry the stench of the entire Underworld.”

“If it makes you feel any better—”

“No,” Vergil says before Dante can even finish.

“Jeez, fine. Be like that.”

“You and I are aware of what is expected of us. Hence tonight’s festivities.”

Dante laughs. “Tonight’s festivities.” He stands up and takes Vergil by the hand, walking backwards in the direction of the bed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t it be anyone other than me?”

Vergil, now nude as the day he was born, basking in the attention of blue eyes ogling him as he walks, shrugs. “Technically. But they keep denying me my brother. It’s only fair I seize the opportunity once it is presented to me.”

Dante stops him from getting on the bed. Instead, he makes Vergil stand there as he gets his fill, staring at him, touching seemingly random bits of flesh with calloused fingers that feel delightfully rough against his soft skin. “All night long,” Dante says with a grin. “We’re gonna fuck all night long and nobody can stop us.”

“A bold declaration.”

“You’ve already cum twice,” Dante says cheekily, gesturing towards the cock that stands erect between Vergil’s legs. “I’m curious how many more times it’ll take.”

“I’m eager to find out.” Vergil grabs the back of Dante’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss that is more tongue and teeth than lips. He ruts against Dante’s hip, drawing pleasure from the sensation of hot skin against slick leather. Vergil steps away when large hands begin to fondle his rear, a thick finger making its way between and pressing demurely against the fluttering ring of muscle.

“Tell me what you want,” Dante says, watching as his brother moves to securely lock the door and seal it with invisible wards. He does the same with the windows, leaving the curtains open as to let the soft breeze in. Lastly, he lights a small cluster of candles before turning off the overhead lights. “I can be romantic, too.”

Vergil waves him off. “I requested for a dimmer to be installed, but the wiring is too old to support it.”

“You can have a bulb with a lower wattage installed, too, you know.”

“Then it’d be a hassle to read.”

“Read in the study.”

“Mother would not appreciate me sitting in the nude on her precious chaise.”

Dante snorts. “Why am I not surprised that you like reading naked?”

“Speaking of,” Vergil says, sweeping Dante’s still clothed form. “As handsome as you look, darling brother, I do wish to see more of you.”

His clothes already leave little to the imagination with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and barely containing his pectorals underneath the elaborate jacket. His pants are tight enough to highlight the massive size of him, pushing up against the leather in a desperate attempt to break free. The outfit perfectly demonstrates all Dante is: barely contained power. Raw, carnal, undoubtedly sexual, and Vergil can’t help it as his body bends in submission.

“You sure you want me out of these,” Dante says, words pitched low in an attempt at seduction, and it works. Vergil’s cock twitches as beads of moisture bubble at its head and slide down the shaft invitingly. “Thought so. Get on the bed.”

Vergil considers resisting but caves to the allure of it all. He sits on the edge of the bed, knees parted enough to be debauched as he watches Dante touch himself, his hands crawling up and down his chest, teasingly squeezing his chest as he blows Vergil a kiss.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Out of the two of us you’re the one with the leaking cock. So, I’d play nice with the guy who’s about to rock your world.”

Vergil scoffs. “You talk mightily for someone who won’t take off his clothes.”

“Only because it gets you off. Doesn’t it, Big Brother? The anticipation really gets you going. A foreplay kinda guy.”

“Perhaps,” Vergil admits, “but I’m afraid we don’t have the time or the luxury for foreplay.” The music still bleeds through the walls, but that will eventually fade, and people will begin looking for him.

“Then let’s get down to business, shall we?” 

Dante stands between Vergil’s knees and pushes him onto his back before disappearing from his line of sight. The bed is soft and welcoming to his weight, having chosen the best linens for the occasion. He can be easily lulled to sleep by any set of soft hands, but what he gets are rough ones demandingly spreading his legs further apart, and a tongue mercilessly lapping against the tight ring of muscle below.

“Dante!” Vergil nearly sits up, unexpecting of the lewd sensation. He has partaken in many sexual acts throughout his life, but this is new. It’s as appalling as it is unsanitary regardless of his level of cleanliness, but fuck if it makes him even harder. Vergil moans and stills his hips, reluctantly allowing Dante to do as he pleases.

The tongue laps at a leisurely pace, pulling away only to press kisses along the expanse of Vergil’s thigh before returning. It isn’t until Vergil’s gaze on the canopy of his bed becomes hazy that Dante stiffens his tongue and pushes past the barrier, making his back arch clean off the bed.

Dante hums, clearly pleased with himself. He does it again and again, fucking Vergil open with his tongue, only stopping to suckle on the heavy balls that rest against the bridge of his nose. He neglects his brother’s cock altogether, even when he’s introduced a finger alongside his tongue.

Vergil sinks into the sensations. His fingers twist into the bed sheets as his thighs quiver on either side of Dante’s head. He is able to find a calmness amidst the onslaught, allowing his mind and body to drink the experience all the while remaining in control of himself. He sighs his pleasure, takes it into himself without hesitation.

Once a second finger joins the fray, Vergil speaks up. “There’s lube in the drawer.” Fingers still buried uncomfortably inside of him, Vergil can hear Dante opening each of the drawers on the bedside table until he finds it. “Be liberal with it.”

“You’re way too coherent,” Dante mutters as he uncaps it, pouring some onto the fingers still halfway inside of Vergil before pushing all the way back in.

Vergil hisses, trying to knock Dante away with his foot. “Warm it first, you idiot.”

“Hey, at least we have lube. If you think there’s any in the Underworld, you’re dead wrong.”

“That’s… I don’t want to know.” The last word quivers however, when Dante slides in and curls his fingers in search of the sweet spot they both know hides deep inside. It is enough to sate Vergil’s arguments as he lays there, his body welcoming the intrusion even when another finger adds a hint of burning to the mix.

Dante is breathtakingly attentive to the wants and needs of the body beneath him, soothing any hint of pain with kisses and hushed whispers against the warm skin of Vergil’s thighs. “You’re doing so good for me,” he says, taking his sweet time preparing his new home. “You’re gonna feel even better when I’m inside you. Taking good care of big brother.”

Vergil shivers at the litany of mostly nonsensical words, sinking into the praise and attention he’s craved for so long. “I’m ready, Dante.” Fingers withdraw and the emptiness is unbearable, but they soon wrap around Vergil’s cock as Dante rises to his full height and looms over him.

“Head on the pillows,” Dante says, finally undressing with little spectacle.

Vergil shifts until he’s laying back against the mountain of pillows, making himself comfortable as Dante crawls into bed and settles between his legs. The weight of him soothes the monstrous thrashing Vergil has grown accustomed to over the years, the one that rendered his nights sleepless and his waking hours a constant battle for inner peace. To have Dante laying over him, pinning him down with the broad angles of his body is akin to achieving bliss in this scarred world.

“Hope you’re ready, baby.” Dante hooks a hand behind Vergil’s left thigh and lifts it. He mindlessly reaches for the lubricant and smothers his cock with it, making sure to warm it this time like the good little brother he is. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Just get on with it. I’m not made of glass.”

Dante catches his eyes as he positions himself, crowding Vergil against the bed with nothing but his presence. They both hold their breath as Dante pushes in with plenty of resistance, his fingers a poor preamble to the sheer size of him, and Vergil can’t help the sound that rises out of his throat unbidden. It makes Dante grunt in turn, stilling his hips.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Vergil says, his legs coming up to wrap around Dante’s waist. He uses his heel to urge him on, but Dante refrains with a soft laugh.

“Let me take it in, Verge, jeez.” He sweeps his hair back, sweat gathering along his forehead from his efforts to not simply pound into Vergil unchecked. “I’ve wanted this for a long fucking time.”

“So have I.”

“Won’t kill you to wait a couple more seconds.” Dante tips over to nibble Vergil’s neck, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses up his jaw until he eventually decides to settle on his mouth. He licks his way in, swapping spit and sucking on Vergil’s tongue until he finally bottoms out with one last thrust.

Vergil stiffens but Dante refuses to let up, kissing him through it until he melts back into the soft mattress. His nails dig into Dante’s back, drawing wicked lines wrought with pain and pleasure as his legs spasm from the pressure.

Absolution comes at that moment. The anger that has dragged at Vergil’s heels since his childhood, the agony of that goodbye, of having his brother ripped away from him by forces beyond their strength to contest. It feels like Dante has finally come home, having carved a place for himself inside Vergil’s body to hide away in.

Dante pulls away only to look down at Vergil with eyes that convey more than words ever could. “You’ve always been so beautiful,” he says, his tone worshipful. “So fucking beautiful.” He moves, a miniscule twitch that leaves Vergil gasping.

They fall into a rhythm that is nearly nonexistent, at first having been overwhelming until Vergil can only wordlessly urge Dante for more. But his brother has always been difficult, tease that he is, toying with Vergil and giving him just enough to be felt, but nowhere near enough to scratch the itch deep inside. He draws all the way out until only the tip remains, before slowly pushing in again.

Despite Vergil’s squirming and aggravated huffs, too stubborn to ask for more, he cums twice to the cadence of Dante’s voice begging him to do so. It should be humiliating, the amount of power his little brother has over him, but Vergil is too fucked out to care. Still, his cock remains stiff and unsatisfied.

“I have something,” Dante says, breaking the silence only filled with moans and pants and grunts. “I figured now would be a good a time as any to eat it.”

Vergil blinks up at him, momentarily confused and then devastated when he pulls out without warning. He takes the opportunity to watch Dante, however, as he gets off the bed with an unsteady step to look through the luggage Vergil has just realized is sitting underneath the window. It doesn’t matter to him. What interests him is the state of Dante’s glorious cock, erect and veiny even from the short distance, ready to burst at any given moment. Vergil desperately hopes it does so inside of him.

“You haven’t ejaculated yet,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Dante snorts, pulling out something roughly the size of his fist from the bag. It’s wrapped in dark fabric. “Unlike some people, I have something called self-control.”

“Is my hole not enough?” He surprises himself with the crassness of the question, and given Dante’s double-take, he’s surprised him as well.

“Want me to be honest?” At Vergil’s nod, Dante approaches the bed again, prize in hand. “Your hole is the tightest little thing I’ve ever had the pleasure to stick my dick in.” He strokes himself with his free hand, grinning as he gets back on the bed. “I’d give up everything if it means I get to keep it for myself.”

Vergil gives him a self-satisfied smile.

Dante settles between his legs again, but the look on his face turns a shade too serious for their activities. He doesn’t say anything as he unwraps the bundle in his hands, and Vergil is immediately taken aback by what he sees. “You picked it,” he says.

“It’s ripe.” Dante holds up the fruit for Vergil to see. “It has been for a while. I’m surprised nothing’s tried to steal into the garden and take it.”

“My wards are impenetrable,” Vergil says, sitting up and scooting closer. “Were they not, I fear every demon in the Underworld would have attempted to steal it.” He takes it from Dante, inspecting it closely. “It’s lovely.”

“Considering what fed it, yeah.”

“An entire war. So many people.” Vergil drags his thumb across the rough exterior and gently presses against the fleshy openings that shine like rubies despite any direct source of light. Dante goes to take it back, but Vergil holds fast for a moment longer. “I tended to it for so long, not knowing what it was. Such a massive tree and it only bore a single fruit.”

“One’s all it ever needs,” Dante says cautiously, attentively watching his brother. “Qliphoths are rare enough as is. They don’t need to go around dropping fruit like apples.”

“That would be catastrophic. You never told me how you got the seeds.”

“If there is one thing demons know how to do, it’s bartering. Luckily, they don’t know what they’re bartering half the time.”

Vergil brings the fruit to his lips and he can feel its vibration settling deep in his bones. A mere touch is enough to wreak havoc upon his senses, whispering promises Vergil desperately claws towards.

At Dante’s hand wrapping around his wrist, he smiles. “Relax, brother. This is the fruit of kings, after all.” He hands it back to Dante without a fuss. “I do not envy the burden on your shoulders.”

“Thanks,” Dante says dryly. He looks down at the fruit and is quiet for a long moment. “One thing still bugs me from all this, and that’s why Mundus wanted us separated. I’d like to say it’s because we’re a force to be reckoned with, but at the same time it feels like we’re walking right into his trap.”

Vergil agrees. “Mundus’ cunning has always set him apart, especially while he works from the shadows. At times it feels like all he ever does is observe and draw satisfaction from seeing others stumble into his plan, whatever that may be.”

“Do you think this plays into his plans? Us. Like this.”

“There’s no way to tell.” Vergil reaches over to run his fingers down Dante’s chest, admiring the way his muscles move at the featherlight touch. “By now I fear our only hope is brute force.”

“Against what?” Dante squeezes the bridge of his nose in a show of frustration. “You would think I would have gotten any sort of concrete information by now. Unless I’m being fed only what he wants me to know.”

“Possibly.”

Dante’s free hand caresses the leg closest to him, digging his fingertips into the sinewy muscles of Vergil’s slender form. “Guess we just have to stay a step ahead,” he says.

“How do you suppose we do that?” Vergil is surprised when Dante holds the Qliphoth fruit to his face, pressing its earthy flesh against his lips.

For a moment, Vergil is overcome. The whirlwind of emotions he’s so carefully learned to keep in check now breaking free from their chains, tugging him closer to the hellish offering. Part of him warns of what a terrible idea it would be to eat a source rumored to offer unlimited power. But another part of him, the same bits and pieces that hunger for his brother, whisper that yes – unlimited power is all he truly needs.

“Dante—”

“Together,” he says, moving closer. “If he wanted us apart, then we’ll do it together.”

It’s as romantic as it is stupid, and curse Vergil’s humanity for making him succumb.

The first bite tastes of ash and rot. Its insides are chalky and harsh as he chews with regret, almost glass-like as it fractures and digs into his gums. It occurs to him too late that the fruit is not designed for human consumption, and it will undoubtedly shred its way down his esophagus and destroy his stomach. But he will heal. He will heal and digest it, and what follows is anybody’s guess.

Vergil watches Dante take a bite, but his expression is far less perturbed. Blood drips down the corners of his mouth, down his chin, and streak his neck. He hasn’t swallowed yet when he’s already passing it back to Vergil for seconds, and that second bite is softer, easier on the tongue and teeth, its taste almost sweet.

They continue back and forth, until both are drenched in blood that is not their own, an unholy pact that twists and grows deep in their bellies.

The last bit is unceremoniously shoved down Vergil’s throat, Dante’s quivering fingers forcing it down as his brother gags and chokes. “Can you feel it?” Dante whispers hotly against his ear, licking the corners of Vergil’s mouth clean.

The only thing Vergil feels is Dante desperately rutting against him until finally the head of his cock finds its way home, roughly sheathing itself in a single thrust that leaves Vergil reeling.

Dante kisses him bloody, eyes wild as his nails dig into Vergil’s arms, hips snapping unrestrained as he rides the high Vergil is being denied for reasons beyond his comprehension. He lets his brother take what he wants regardless, lets Dante pound into him without mercy as he growls and claws through manic bouts of laughter.

Vergil lays back and takes it, watches Dante gorge himself on the pleasure. He watches the smooth planes of his stubbled cheeks twitch and change. He can feel the hands on him turn clawed and rough, as inhuman as demonically possible. It is then that Vergil understands, and it is then that Vergil suddenly craves something that had never even crossed his mind.

“Let—ah! Let me see your devil,” Vergil rushes out, amidst the loud slapping of slick flesh and near delirious pleasure. He wants more, so much more. He wants Dante unchecked, bared of his humanity. “Dante!”

Dante clenches his teeth, eyes snapping open to stare at Vergil only momentarily before he loses his grip on his own form. It’s the only warning Vergil gets.

He feels it before he can see it. The change in pressure in the room, a weight that is not so much physical but still present, forcing Vergil harder against the bed. He can feel it deep inside of him, a normal girth growing so impossibly large Vergil opens his mouth in a soundless cry that doubles as a baffling request for _more_.

Above him is the devil Vergil has only ever witnessed at a distance on the battlefield. Massive and terrifying and unspeakably beautiful. Dante glows, burning bright like magma seeping through ancient fissures. Wings unfurl and push against the canopy, encasing them in an incredibly bright bubble that is in part a fault of Dante’s eyes. 

He is fire incarnate. He is destruction and power tightly curled underneath the volcanic stone of his skin. And he does not let up his pace, piercing Vergil over and over, pushing harder as his claws rip the bed sheets.

The laugh that stumbles out of Vergil is one high and choking, his hands scrambling for purchase as his beast of a brother fucks him hard enough to split him in half. It’s as painful as it is intoxicating, the impossible fit, the strength behind each thrust that could harm any average human. The sheer size of Dante’s cock, reaching parts of him that should not be touched, and Vergil can see its shape as it moves underneath the planes of his stomach.

It’s too much – it’s not enough – and the delirium it drops Vergil into is unnamable. A fire different from Dante’s burns from within, sublime and _right_ amidst the chaotic coupling taking place. The demon above him makes a sound Vergil can’t quite decipher, but before he can truly react to it, he is immobilized by a maw filled with razor sharp teeth latching onto his throat.

Vergil convulses. The pain is unlike anything he’s ever experienced, but that soon fades into a cacophony of sound and light. His cry is anything but human, low and guttural and vicious in its warning.

Dante only lets up long enough for Vergil to reacquaint himself with his surroundings.

Everything is far too bright, far too acute. Each sense is heightened enough to be disorientating. He tries to speak, ask what is going on, but all that comes from his mangled throat are sounds no human can possibly make. Vergil looks down at his clawed hands glowing a faint blue, before placing them over the neck that is no longer of human shape. He looks at Dante’s face, smug despite its contorted state, and does the only thing he can think of doing: he attacks.

Vergil aims for Dante’s throat but Dante is quicker, lifting his hulking form just enough to grab hold of Vergil’s devil and flip him onto his stomach as if it were child’s play. Vergil fights it until Dante nips the back of his neck, and it’s like this foreign shape knows what it needs to do.

Upper body pressed flesh against the bed that can barely hold their conjoined weight, Vergil is lifted by the hips until he’s on his knees in a mating position. He’s coherent enough to know this, and that shred of humanity that clings in this moment screams for it. He feels Dante move behind him, his erect form barely fitting in the tight confines of the bed, but Vergil is sated the moment his brother penetrates him in one swift push. His mind is quiet, his soul at ease as it hums in harmony with Dante’s energy.

Dante wastes no time, fucking into him with the force of an animal in heat, holding Vergil down as he roars his pleasure at finally coupling with his rightful mate.

Vergil angles his hips to better ease the movement, to allow Dante to fuck deeper, breed him easier and better focus on the mind-numbing ecstasy that shreds Vergil apart and puts him back together again.

Finally, he is complete. He is whole and there is not a crack on him, all of them filled by Dante’s radiant presence.

Vergil is quiet until Dante cums, his seed scorching hot inside of him. He howls for more and his request is granted, the tremendous flow unending until it spills out of him, trickling down jagged thighs and pooling on the bed sheets. Dante continues to fuck him even after he’s spent, his monstrous form rocking into the hot depts of Vergil’s body until they both collapse under the weight of each other.

Dante’s body shifts once more, this time as the base of his cock swells large enough to stretch Vergil’s already abused hole. Vergil whimpers at the discomfort but remains still when Dante dutifully nuzzles the back of his neck, purring deep in his chest to appease his mate.

* * *

Dante wakes at the first light of dawn slipping in through the windows, disturbing the first deep and pleasant sleep he’s had since his childhood days. He burrows deeper into the warmth that envelops him, making him feel safe and at peace.

He blinks his eyes open once he remembers where he is, who he’s with, and what they’ve done.

Careful not to wake the softly snoring brother underneath him, Dante lifts his head from Vergil’s chest to get a good look at him. He’s faring well, all things considered. There isn’t a mark on him, much to his dismay, but Dante can’t help but marvel at the glorious sight that was Vergil’s demon appearing for the very first time. He was stunning in every way, every bit a son of Sparda, and the reminder of their kinship settles in Dante’s gut like the most fulfilling of meals.

He hates that he’s not even sore.

Dante slowly removes himself from the tangle of limbs, only pausing to press the lightest of kisses to Vergil’s stomach. Their skin is tight and unpleasant due to a handful of bodily fluids they were both too fucked out to bother with, and so Dante decides to sneak into the nearest bathroom. It boggles him that Vergil doesn’t have an ensuite.

Tiptoeing across the room, he does quick work of reversing the wards. He wonders if the music played long enough throughout the night, and it not he feels sorry for the poor souls that heard them going at it like demonic rabbits. Because, Dante is certain, someone must have heard them.

Closing the door, Dante is suddenly assaulted by the heaviest, most oppressive of auras he’s ever had the displeasure to experience looming behind him. It is not the first time it has been directed at him, and neither will it be the last, but the lethality of it straightens Dante’s back and forces him into an offensive position unlike any other time. He debates whether he should throw the wards up or not, but considers he’s already committed every offense known to demonkind.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Dante says, making sure the door is securely locked before turning around to face his father.

“Forgive me for wondering where my errant son had run off to.” The iciness of Sparda’s words pluck something lethal inside of Dante. “Apparently he was out committing a slew of unfortunate choices.”

“Depends which son you’re referring to,” Dante says cheekily.

Sparda sniffs the air and the stormy change of expressions ultimately settle into an impassive one. “What have you done?” The question is rhetorical, one that cuts deeper than any blade forged in either realm.

“What I had to do.”

“What you—” Sparda scoffs, pacing the small hallway. He removes his glasses then puts them on again, clearly at a loss. “Are you referring to the Qliphoth or your brother? Because I can smell them both on you.”

“That’s none of your goddamn business.”

“Yes, it is!” His shout rattles the decorative candelabra. “It is my business, Dante. Not only have you overstepped every boundary I have ever set as your king, you directly disobeyed me as your father, you have violated the very treaty that has kept this family alive, and – in case you weren’t aware – you have just doomed your brother to a fate worse than you can ever imagine.”

Dante sniffs, nonplussed. “Well, ain’t this a shit show.”

Sparda slowly closes the space between them, the glow of his eyes unrelated to the sun rising outside of the windows. “Yes, Dante. It is, in fact, a shit show.” His voice drops to merely above a whisper. “I am not as ignorant as you and your brother think me to be. What I am doing is trying to keep the two of you and your mother alive to the best of my abilities. And I apologize if that is not enough for you.”

“This stopped being about us a long time ago. Mundus won when you gave him what he wanted.”

“This war is not yet over,” Sparda hisses. “And I fear it will never be. I _need_ you to understand the nuances, Dante. It will take time—”

“How much time? Mother is mortal, need I remind you. For once I’d like to go on a fucking picnic with her and unfortunately that’s not going to wait until you’ve executed your perfectly curated plan of placing me on the throne a millennium down the line.”

Sparda stares at him. “You don’t think I’d do anything to go on a walk with my wife?” He shakes his head. “You’re not the only one who is pining for someone you love. What I expected of you was to show some form of self-control.”

“That’s all I’ve ever done,” Dante snarls, pushing into Sparda’s space. “Day in and day out since I was eight. Don’t cry out for mommy, don’t ask to see your brother, don’t ask for a goddamn fucking blanket even though you’re living in a cave that’s balls-ass cold. All I’ve ever done is be self-controlled.”

“Not when it mattered most.”

Dante’s nostrils flare as a familiar heat bubbles close to the surface. He has never dared challenge his father, has never even sparred with him, but it’s different now. A different form of instinct is overwriting his self-perseverance, and that is to protect the man currently in his bed. Sparda, regardless of who or what he is, poses an immediate threat Dante’s innate biology cannot ignore.

“Leave,” Dante says, as evenly as possible despite the distortion currently taking hold of his human voice.

“I leave, you come with me.”

“No.”

“That is an order.”

“Blow me.”

“_Dante._”

“I’m not going anywhere until I feel like it, Father. So, be my guest and stand there for the next week if you have nothing better to do.” Squaring off his shoulders, Dante opens the bedroom door a sliver and slips back in. “What’s done is done. You’re just going to have to deal.”

He shuts the door with a resolute click, his back to it as if that alone could stop Sparda were he really up to the task of barging in. He doesn’t, of course, and Dante’s brain summersaults from one thought to another of what the repercussions will be. Returning to the Underworld will have to happen sooner rather than later, and partial dismemberment might very well be a consequence for an unruly prince.

Scratching the back of his head, Dante remembers the reason why he left the room in the first place.

A shower may be out of the question for the time being, but he easily finds a small towel in Vergil’s bureau and dips it into the fancy porcelain pitcher full of water that rests on the small table by the window. It’s the kind of thing one reads about in classic literature, and Dante would have rolled his eyes had it not been as practical as it is.

He gives himself a quick wipe down before dunking the coral-colored towel back into the cold water and moving it, pitcher and all, to the bedside table. Careful to not wake his deeply slumbering brother, Dante diligently sets to cleaning him up.

Nothing but the dry leftovers of blood and semen remain on him. No scratch, no bite, no bruise to indicate the brutality with which they had fucked lingers. Dante figures it’s for the best when they both have images to uphold, but he really wishes they could have carried some form of reminder of what was probably the best damn lay Dante has ever had the pleasure to experience.

The muscles of Vergil’s chest twitch when the cold towel makes contact with his warm skin, but he otherwise doesn’t move. Dante is thorough, even when he’s mindful to clean between his legs. He can’t help himself, lightly touching Vergil’s flaccid cock as it rests as peaceful as the rest of him. Dante presses kisses to his stomach, tracing the path he cleans in hopes of leaving behind a more acceptable bit of him.

If only he could stay here; a willing prisoner.

A hand threads through his hair as he’s busy nuzzling Vergil’s belly, rubbing his nose just above his navel in a vague attempt to get the attention of the sleeping man.

“Good morning, princess,” Dante says.

Vergil mumbles something that may be a greeting but fades back into even breathing. He’s never been a morning person but Dante can excuse it, especially now while he looks breathtakingly peaceful, his hair down and lips slightly parted. Sometimes Dante finds it hard to believe that they’re identical. He often fails to see the same beauty he sees in Vergil reflected in the mirror.

He crawls up Vergil’s body to drop a kiss to his jaw, momentarily bringing him back to the land of the waking. “I’m gonna have to leave soon.”

Vergil grumbles. His hand finds the side of Dante’s face, lightly caressing it. “Of course.”

“Wish I didn’t have to.”

“We could live in this bed.” Vergil’s voice is hoarse for reasons Dante can’t help but smirk over. “We’d have all we need.”

“I don’t see any food.”

“We could eat each other.”

Dante is certain he means it in a sexual way, but his demon instincts pur at the idea of literally consuming each other’s flesh. They would regenerate of course, do it all again, but Vergil is nowhere near as comfortable or even aware of his capabilities as Dante is.

“Alright, you kinky bastard,” Dante says, pushing their mouths together.

Vergil sighs into the kiss, eyes still closed. “Promise me it won’t be another ten years until I can have you again.”

“I promise.” Dante doesn’t think much of it, then figures he should have considered making promises he might not be able to keep. But Vergil understands what it’s like to live the lives they lead. “You’re my favorite.”

Vergil laughs. It’s a quiet little sound, more like a sudden exhale of breath that tickles his nose. “I better be.” Another kiss. “How long before you go?”

“Dunno yet.”

“Then stay a little longer. Here.”

Dante nods his head even though Vergil can’t see him. “Okay,” he says, but Vergil’s breathing has evened out again. “You’re lucky you’re the one pain in the ass I actually enjoy.”

Settling on top of his brother, Dante hums happily as he sinks against Vergil’s heat and closes his eyes. At the very least, if he does get tortured for his transgressions against the king, he will go with the memory of what it is like to sleep in the comfort of his brother’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi or just lurk as i make an ass of myself on twitter at **[astramaxima](https://twitter.com/astramaxima)!**


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